Chapter 1- Curiosity Killed The Cat
You don't even know I'm watching you.
It's ironic, really. A room full of future investigative journalists, psychologists, and policy researchers—and not one of you realizes I'm not supposed to be here yet.
I was scheduled to arrive fifteen minutes from now. Last-minute keynote, a favor for Nezu. He always says I have a "perspective the students need." That's code for: "Say the shit no one else will."
Third row from the back. Hood up. Scarf wrapped high on my jawline. Black boots still wet from the rain. My hair's a tangled mess under the hood, eyes shaded by sleep-deprivation and shadows. I'm practically invisible.
You look up. Not at me—just in my direction. You squint. Tilt your head. A flicker of interest flashes across your face before you go back to scribbling in that battered black notebook.
You don't know I've read it.
Not yours specifically, no. But I know the type. Spiral-bound, corners chewed, the spine cracked from flipping too fast. I bet there are little tabs marking your favorite sources. You look like the type who color codes citations and dreams in footnotes.
You're exactly the kind of student I used to roll my eyes at.
So why can't I stop watching you? Why have you captured my attention? What is this unfamiliar itch crawling under my skin?
The symposium host finishes their overly cheerful opening remarks. It's the same recycled speech I've heard at every academic event for the past five years. "Welcome, rising leaders of our generation, future heroes of truth, blah blah blah."
You don't clap. Interesting.
Most students applaud on autopilot. You just flip the page, expression unreadable. You look tired—but focused. Detached—but present. What brings you here? Are you here for me?
The panel begins. Three heroes in stiff suits—two of them clearly haven't seen real combat in years. One's a Commission puppet with veneers too white to trust. I stop listening after he says "brand synergy" for the second time.
I walk down the aisle slowly. Controlled. Silent. The crowd shifts as I pass, eyes on me. I don't smile. I never do. But I can feel yours.
Your eyes follow me—not with admiration, but with curiosity. Dissection. Like you're trying to decode me. Like I'm the puzzle instead of the prize.
Curiosity killed the cat.
I drop into my seat with calculated apathy, stretch my legs a little too far, lean back just enough to appear uninterested. But my eyes find you the second I lift my head.
You're wearing a coffee-stained hoodie layered under a navy blue blazer. Your hair's pulled into a haphazard bun, strands falling around your face in intentional chaos. It's as if you want people to think you don't care—when really, you've curated every inch of yourself to look effortless.
I answer three questions. Two are useless. One is vaguely thoughtful. Then your hand goes up.
Something shifts in my chest.
I shouldn't care. I've answered thousands of student questions in my career. But yours?
Yours makes my heart beat too loud in my ears.
"Erasure Hero Aizawa," you say. Your voice is calm but sharp. There's an edge in it—one that cuts through the theater like a scalpel. "In your years underground, how many decisions did you make that violated the Hero Code? And how many of them did you consider necessary?"
I blink slowly. The air thickens. I could lie. That's what most heroes do. Say something safe. Say "none." Say "only when lives were at stake."
But you wouldn't respect a lie.
And I've already decided I want your respect. You earned it the moment you didn't look away.
"One," I answer, voice low. Calm. Steady. "And I'm still deciding."
The audience murmurs. Nervous laughter spreads like a virus.
You stare at me like you're writing the answer on my skin. Your pen is still. You've stopped taking notes.
I shift—not out of discomfort. Out of calculation.
I want to see how long you'll keep looking.
Hours later, I linger behind.
I decline the photos. Brush off the shallow praise. Heroes are swarming the crowd like they're in a damn talent show. I keep my eyes on the exits.
You're walking toward the far door, a tote bag slung lazily over one shoulder. Your notebook clutched to your chest. The sound of your boots—black combat style, slightly worn—hits the marble floor rhythmically. I watch the sway of your hips, the stiffness in your posture.
Even from behind, your presence is unmistakable.
Then you pause. Glance over your shoulder.
It's not at me. You're just thoughtful like that. Always thinking. Always searching. Turning things over twice in your head before letting them go.
You step outside and disappear into the misty late afternoon.
Instead, I go to the student registry office with a falsified clearance form. I tell them I'm working with Professor Mikado on thesis consulting. They don't even check. Just hand me the list.
[Last Name], [First Name]
Major: Applied Ethics & Heroic Society Studies
Research Title: "Between Code and Carnage: Moral Thresholds in Underground Hero Work."
Advisor: Professor Mikado
Graduation Track: Spring Term
You're practically gift-wrapped.
I dig deeper. Grades. Transcripts. You're top three in your class. You've published two academic articles, earned a scholarship for fieldwork in Hosu. You were there after the Nomu incident. You've seen blood. Real hero blood.
No wonder you asked that question.
You've seen the rot beneath the hero shine—and you're still curious.
It's dangerous to be curious.
But it's more dangerous to be interesting.
And you... are very interesting.
At 2:11 AM, I read your blog.
Not the school-sanctioned one. The hidden one. You thought you were clever with your VPN routing and anonymous URL.
Your latest post is a scathing critique of hero overreach during the quirk regulation protests. You name names. Agencies. You quote court documents and archived interviews that were supposed to be scrubbed.
And you're walking around like no one's watching you.
A sigh escapes my lips. I pull the newspaper from the counter and try to read, but the words blur. My fingers loosen. The paper slips, lands across my face. My eyes shut.
And your face—your eyes, your voice—flashes behind my eyelids.
A quiet laugh curls from my chest. No. A full, throaty, breathless laugh rips out of me.
A grin spreads across my face.
Y/N... I'm going to ruin you.
You should be more careful.
I could help you be more careful.
I close the laptop slowly. Consider my next move.
A knock on the window pulls my attention. Just the wind.
Still, I stand. Walk toward the glass. It's raining. Hard. The glow from your apartment window softens against the downpour.
The street below is quiet. Empty.
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