The next day, at the hospital.
Kurose Kuro's condition had finally stabilized. People still felt pain when they touched him, but it was no longer as extreme as the night before. Even so, the doctors didn't take any chances. He was immediately sent in for a full-body examination.
"The situation is unusual, but not unheard of," the doctor said, scanning the report with a troubled expression. "There are records suggesting that some heads of the Kurose family experienced similar symptoms. It may be hereditary."
He paused.
"Depending on how you look at it… congratulations. You now have a second quirk."
Kuro blinked.
A second quirk?
That didn't make sense. Quirks usually manifested around the age of four and were verified multiple times during childhood. It was rare for a diagnosis to be wrong.
Nekoyama Fumiko reacted faster than he did.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice tight with worry.
"We're still confirming the details, but it appears to be related to pain," the doctor replied. "We spoke to several staff members who collapsed after touching him. Each described something different. One said it felt like being cut open. Another said it was like being burned. Someone else described it as countless needles piercing their body."
He glanced at Kuro.
"All of them reported overwhelming pain the moment they made contact. What about you? Are you still in pain?"
Kuro's hands trembled constantly. Not by choice—his body simply wouldn't stop.
"…Yeah," he said quietly. "It still hurts."
"The awakening was abrupt," the doctor continued. "You recently suffered serious injuries, and your body hasn't recovered. That's likely why the quirk is unstable. It may take at least a month to settle."
He frowned slightly.
"If your body were in better condition, the pain might be less severe. But right now, both your health and your quirk are working against you."
He set the report down.
"For the next year, avoid anything that puts strain on your body. No intense exercise. Keep your stress levels low. We still don't fully understand your quirk, but it clearly causes significant pain—for both you and others."
Kuro stared at his hands.
He could feel it.
The lingering sensation of burns. The sharp sting of cuts. The prickling of needles under his skin.
There was no new injury.
But the pain was real.
"What's the point of a quirk like this?"
The doctor hesitated. "From a medical standpoint, I wouldn't recommend using it. Pain is the body's response to harmful stimuli. It comes with emotional stress and defensive reactions. While it serves a purpose, prolonged exposure can have serious psychological effects."
He spoke more plainly.
"It will make you feel worse. Over time, it could increase the risk of depression."
He handed over a prescription.
"These are painkillers. Don't rely on them too much. I suspect your pain is more neurological than physical, so medication may not be very effective."
A week passed.
The pain didn't lessen.
The medication did nothing.
After further evaluation, the doctors and specialists gave the quirk a name.
[Pain Recall].
It stored every instance of pain Kuro had experienced and allowed him to release it onto others.
The quirk had likely existed in a dormant state for years, too subtle to detect. But during the recent incident, the extreme pain he endured had forced it into full activation.
That explained everything.
The nurses and doctors hadn't imagined it.
They had felt it.
Every cut.
Every burn.
Every needle.
Even the pain from the car massacre in Kita Bay City ten years ago had been preserved.
It was all there.
A quirk that recorded suffering.
And shared it.
"It's useless," Kuro muttered.
A month and a half later, he had gained basic control over it. He could now suppress the effect enough to let people touch him without collapsing.
After another full examination, he was finally cleared to leave the hospital and return to Nekohoshi Orphanage.
Though he still needed rest.
"That's why the doctor told you not to use it," Fujita Emi said.
She had come to pick him up, wearing a light floral dress. She spun once in front of him, smiling. "Forget the quirk for a second—how does this look?"
She had chosen it carefully.
Someone had told her that nice things could lift a person's mood.
Kuro barely glanced at it.
"Looks fine."
He wasn't interested.
At first, he had hoped the pain was just a precursor to something stronger. Maybe a powerful offensive quirk was about to emerge.
Instead, he had ended up with something worse.
Another useless ability.
"By the way," Emi added as they walked through the market, picking out ingredients for dinner, "that boy who was worried about you called again."
Kuro frowned.
"You mean Shinso?"
"Yeah. He sounded genuinely concerned. You should call him back when we get home. Don't brush people off like that."
"I'm not close with him," Kuro said. "There's no need to make a big deal out of it."
Emi flicked his forehead.
"You can't treat people like that. Honestly… whatever. Just come eat dinner tonight. An old friend of Granny Neko is coming too."
"Why does she have so many friends?"
"They helped when you were injured last time. It's only right to thank them."
"It's just a discharge from the hospital," Kuro muttered.
He thought everyone was overreacting.
By the time dinner started, he realized he was wrong.
Everyone else was taking it seriously.
Aside from Shinso's family, who couldn't make it, even his attending doctor had shown up.
There was also someone he didn't recognize—an elderly woman in a white lab coat, sitting beside Nekoyama Fumiko.
"Emi, this is a teacher from U.A. High School," Fumiko said.
The woman smiled kindly at Kuro.
"You must be Kuro."
"Yes. Nice to meet you."
Dinner began.
Hot pot again.
One pot was mild, the other spicy. Most of the table was covered in meat.
The doctor frowned. "He shouldn't be eating something this heavy all at once."
Before Kuro could react, the spicy pot was taken away from him.
"Hey, wait—wasn't that for me?" he protested.
"Your health comes first," Granny Neko said firmly.
Then she added, "After dinner, I've prepared some training for you."
Kuro froze.
"…Training?"
"Just basic self-defense," she said. "I won't push you too hard."
Kuro didn't believe her.
"Granny, I still need rest."
"This is part of your recovery."
Her tone made it clear there was no arguing.
To her, this wasn't optional.
It was preparation.