Issei couldn't sleep.
His body filled with energy, that wouldn't stop.
He lay in bed, eyes locked on the dark ceiling, his mind a swirl of whispered fears.
'What if you mess up in class tomorrow?' a voice hissed.
'What if Gran Torino falls, his knee breaking?'
'What if someone catches you using your quirk, exposes you?'
The whispers were sharp, small but biting, each one tightening his chest.
He rolled out of bed, bare feet slapping the cold floor, needing to move, to shut them up.
He crept through the house, silent, dodging creaky boards.
Gran Torino's snores echoed from down the hall, steady, oblivious.
Issei's senses picked up a faint breeze outside, a dripping faucet, but he pushed them aside.
His hands twitched, heat conversion quirk active, like it was itching to escape.
His body felt bloated, stuffed with energy his tired muscles couldn't burn.
In the living room, he stopped at the old punching bag, its leather rough and worn.
No gloves—he didn't care.
He clenched his small fists and swung, the first punch hitting hard, jarring his knuckles.
He swung again, faster, the thud drowning out the whispers.
But they kept coming, relentless.
'What if you trip in the park, kids mocking you, you lose all you Aura?'
'What if your quirk slips, kills someone?'
'What if Hope—' His breath caught, the whisper turning vicious.
'What if she falls from the balcony, wings too weak?'
'What if those kids corner her?'
'What if a villain takes her, silences her laugh forever?'
He punched harder, fists slamming the bag, trying to bury the fear.
His arms ached, but the whispers grew darker, clawing at him.
'Hope's house burns, she's trapped.'
'She's bleeding in an alley, like your mom.'
'She's gone, and you're too weak to stop it.'
His chest burned, fear raw and heavy, worse because he cared enough to feel it.
His quirk surged, out of control, and cold poured from his fists.
The bag froze turning into harder solid supercooled in an instant.
Issei stopped, panting, his senses snapping back.
He looked at his hands—knuckles scraped, skin slightly torn, blood smearing where he'd hit the rough leather too hard, too wild.
The pain stung, sharp, cutting through the fog of fear for a moment.
He collapsed, slumping against the couch, chest heaving.
The frozen bag loomed, slight frost catching faint moonlight.
His bloody fists rested on his knees, throbbing, but the buzzing energy didn't fade.
The whispers lingered—
'Hope's gone.' 'You'll fail.'
'Your quirks will ruin you.'
He sat there, panting, the night pressing in.
He'd wash the blood off before morning, hide the cuts, act fine.
But the fear stayed, cold and heavy, a shadow he couldn't punch away.
Issei sat slumped against the wall, his chest still heaving.
His knuckles stung.
The whispered fears remained their sharp edges cutting into his mind.
Worst part? This wasn't new.
The voices came too often, slinking back from time to time, and he'd stopped caring most days.
They were just… there, a noise he couldn't fully silence.
He wiped his bloody hands on his pajama pants, wincing as the fabric scraped his raw skin.
But the whispers weren't always fears, not always his own.
Sometimes, he sensed something else—fuzzy, like static from other people.
A kid at school, scared of failing a test, their anxiety brushing against his mind like a stray radio signal.
Hope's quiet worry when kids shunned her, a faint hum he couldn't ignore.
Gran Torino's buried grief, heavy and old, surfacing when he thought Issei wasn't looking.
It was never clear, just a vague, prickly feeling, but it was real he couldn't make head or tail of it though.
Issei pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to block it all out.
He figured the whispers were mental scars, wounds from both his lives he didn't want to face.
His Earth life—blurry memories of a lonely apartment, takeout boxes, a job he hated—left him detached, a man who'd given up on connection.
This life was a bit better but Ryoma's sacrifice piled on more emotional weightage.
The voices, they were probably his mind's way of leaking those scars, forcing them out in whispers and strange sensations.
He didn't want to dig into it.
Acknowledging them felt like opening a door he couldn't close.
His fists clenched.
He stood, shaky, and shuffled to the kitchen, moving quietly so Gran Torino wouldn't wake.
The sink's faucet squeaked as he turned it on, cold water stinging his knuckles as he rinsed the blood away.
His senses tracked the red swirling down the drain, the faint soap smell, the distant hum of a car outside.
The whispers crept back, softer but persistent. 'What if Hope doesn't show up tomorrow?' 'What if she's hurt, and you're not there?' 'What if you freeze her by accident?'
He shook his head, hard, splashing water on his face, trying to shake them off.
Drying his hands on a dish towel, he leaned against the counter, his small frame tense.
The fuzzy static came again, unbidden—a faint echo of Hope's fear, maybe, from earlier in the park when she'd fallen.
Or was it Gran Torino's, tied to memories of old battles? Issei couldn't tell, and that scared him more than the whispers.
What if this was another quirk, something new, picking up emotions like radio waves?
He already had two—senses and heat conversion.
A third would make him even more of a target.
He slid to the floor, back against the cabinets, his bloody knuckles throbbing.
The voices hissed again.
'You're a monster.' 'You'll hurt her.'
"____"
He hugged his knees, his kid's body trembling despite his mind's apparently mute nature.
The fuzzy feelings, the whispers—they were too much.
He wanted to punch the bag again, freeze it to shards, anything to make it stop.
But he was too tired.
...
A week later, Issei sat in a doctor's office, his nine-year-old body slouched in a padded chair too big for him.
Gran Torino waited outside.
The sleepless nights hadn't stopped—unlike other times, the restless buzz, the fuzzy static, the whispers hadn't let up.
He'd barely slept more than a couple minutes at a time, his mind trapped in a haze he couldn't name.
Dark circles hung under his eyes, but he looked okay otherwise, just exhausted.
Completely worn out.
He'd told Gran Torino about the insomnia, hesitating before admitting the voices, the worry they might point to something like schizophrenia.
The old man's face had tightened with worry, he'd nodded, saying it was better to get it checked.
Issei agreed—better safe than sorry, even if it meant stressing Grandpa out.
Now, he was alone with a therapist, a middle-aged woman named Dr. Sato, who had a gentle voice and a notepad that never stopped moving.
Her office smelled of lavender and paper, and Issei's senses caught the soft scratch of her pen, the hum of a fan, her steady heartbeat.
It was all too loud, too much especially right now with his sleep deprived mind...
He swears he could even hear electricity at times..
Dr. Sato leaned forward, her eyes kind. She spoke softly, the way you'd talk to a kid, not a patient.
"Issei, I'm glad you're here. It sounds like you've been having a tough time sleeping.... Can you tell me a little about what's been going on?"
Issei shifted, his feet dangling above the floor.
"Can't sleep," he said, voice flat, too serious for a kid. "Maybe a week. Thoughts keep me up."
He didn't look at her, staring at a colorful poster of cartoon animals on the wall instead.
She nodded, jotting something down, her pen moving carefully.
"Thoughts can be really loud sometimes, huh? Are they about anything specific, like school or home, or just… all over the place?"
Her tone was warm, encouraging, but she was probing, trying to map out what was going on in his head.
"Random stuff," Issei said, vague, his adult mind wrestling with his kid's voice.
"Scary things. Bad things happening." He thought of the whispers but he didn't say them this must be able to give her specific idea.
Dr. Sato tilted her head, her expression soft but attentive, like she was piecing together a puzzle.
"Scary things can feel really big, especially at night....Do these thoughts feel like they're yours, or do they ever seem like they're coming from somewhere else, like a voice that's not you?"
She asked it gently, treading carefully, knowing a question like that could scare a kid or make them clam up.
She was checking for signs of schizophrenia or other conditions, but she didn't push too hard, keeping her voice light.
Issei's hands tightened. "Mostly mine," he mumbled, then paused, unsure.
"Sometimes… I don't know. Like I feel stuff that's not mine."
It was the most he could say without sounding crazy.
Well I am crazy...
The fuzzy feelings—other people's emotions brushing against his mind—were real, but how could he explain that? He was already scared she'd label him broken.
She wrote something, her pen steady, but her eyes stayed on him.
"That sounds really hard, Issei. Feeling things that don't seem like yours can be confusing...Does it happen a lot, or just sometimes? Maybe with certain people, like at school or home?"
She was gentle, trying to draw him out, mapping his psyche without making him feel cornered.
Trauma , she suspected, was very likely—his file mentioned a rough early life, losing his parent young.
But the "feeling others" part raised flags for something more, maybe psychosis or a dissociative issue, though she needed more to be sure.
"Sometimes," he said, looking at his hands now, picking at a scab.
"With people I know. I don't know why."
His voice was quiet, a kid's voice, but heavy.
He wanted to stop talking, to leave, but the fear of what was wrong with him kept him there.
Dr. Sato nodded, her face kind, not judging.
"It's okay if it's hard to explain. You're doing great just telling me this much.... Sometimes, when we go through tough stuff, our brains try to make sense of it in weird ways—like thoughts or feelings that don't feel like ours... It doesn't mean you're bad or ill. It just means your brain's working hard."
She smiled, soft, like she was talking to a kid who needed to feel safe. "Can you tell me if anything big happened before this started? Maybe something that felt scary or sad?"
"Nothing," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just… can't sleep."
She didn't push, sensing his walls going up. "Okay, that's fine. We don't have to figure it all out today."
She set her pen down, leaning forward and lied. "I think you might be dealing with some stress or maybe some old hurts that are making it hard to rest... We'll work on ways to help you sleep, like relaxing before bed or writing down what's on your mind. And if it's okay with you, we can keep talking, Sound good?"
Issei nodded.
Dr. Sato stood, her voice still gentle.
"You did awesome today, Issei. It's really brave to talk about this....I'll check in with your grandpa, and we'll set up another time to chat, okay? For now, try to rest when you can, even if it's just closing your eyes for a bit."
He mumbled a "yeah" and shuffled out, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
Grandpa was in the waiting room, his sharp eyes softening when he saw Issei's tired face.
"All done ?" he asked, standing with a grunt.
Issei nodded, not meeting his gaze too tired.
Dr. Sato glanced at Gran Torino, her expression tight but professional.
"May I talk to you for a minute?" she asked, her voice soft but firm.
She turned to Issei, crouching slightly to his level. "I'll talk to your grandpa for a minute, okay? Be a good boy and wait here, alright?"
Her tone was gentle, like she was coaxing a shy kid, but Issei didn't respond.
He just shuffled to a waiting chair, his frame slumping as he sat, his face blank, eyes fixed on the floor.
Dr. Sato stood, a touch of awkwardness crossing her face.
This kid's too damn stoic, she thought, unsettled by his silence.
Shaking it off, she gestured for Gran Torino to follow her back into the office.
The door clicked shut behind them, and she didn't waste time, her voice low but sharp with concern.
"Look, Mr. Sorahiko, I'll be straight with you," she said, folding her arms.
"Issei's got severe trauma. He's showing clear signs of paranoia—could turn into something extreme if it's not addressed...There's also a possibility of schizophrenia, based on what he described about thoughts and feelings that don't feel like his... His psyche is incredibly closed off, he's built walls I can't get through...He's vague, guarded, and that's not normal for a kid his age."
She paused, her eyes narrowing. "How the hell have you been raising him? You shouldn't even qualify as a guardian if you missed this. I refuse to believe there weren't signs before now."
Gran Torino leaned on his cane, his face unreadable, but his sharp eyes held a weight that made Sato pause.
He didn't flinch at her tone, just let out a slow breath.
"I ain't gonna argue with you, doc... Kid's been through more than enough —lost his father young, saw things no one should... I've been doin' my best, but I ain't perfect....i just tried to be his family.."
Sato's anger faltered, but her concern didn't.
She sat down, rubbing her temple. "I get that he's been through a lot. His file mentioned that, but this… it's deep, Mr. Sorahiko. The bloodwork came back clean he's physically healthy, no issues causing the insomnia."
"It's all in his head, and that's what worries me. This is my first child patient, and it hurts to see a kid this damaged, carrying so much fear and shutting everyone out."
Gran Torino's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "What's your advice, then?"
She sighed, picking up her notepad. "We start slow. Cognitive behavioral therapy to help with the paranoia and trauma...I'll teach him coping strategies for the insomnia—journaling, relaxation techniques. "
"If the schizophrenia symptoms get clearer, we'll consider medication, but I'm not jumping to that yet... He's young, and I don't want to overmedicate."
" The biggest hurdle is getting him to open up. He's so guarded, it's like talking to a wall." She looked at Gran Torino, softer now.
"You need to be involved. Watch for changes—mood swings, more withdrawal, anything odd. And create a safe space at home. He needs to feel like he can talk."
Gran Torino solemnly said."Kid's always been quiet. Serious...I never thought...?"
"Encourage him to connect," Sato said.
"Friends, hobbies, anything to pull him out of his head...He mentioned feeling things that aren't his—could be hyper-empathy from trauma, could be something else...We'll explore it in sessions, but he needs stability. "
"And you need to be honest with me about his history. If there's more I don't know, it'll make this harder."
Gran Torino nodded, his face serious. "I hear you. I'll do what I can.."
Sato stood, her heart heavy. "We'll schedule weekly sessions. I'll send you some resources for supporting him. Just… don't let him slip through the cracks, okay?"
Outside, Issei sat in the waiting room, his hands in his pockets, dark circles stark against his pale face.
He heard most of everything and sighed.... just great...
...
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Power Stones and Reviews please