The first thing Kenji noticed was the beeping.
Steady. Mechanical. Irritating.
His eyes cracked open to sterile white ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights that stabbed directly into his skull. The air tasted like disinfectant and recycled breath. His body felt wrong—too light, too small, joints stiff like rusted machinery.
Hospital.
'Shit.'
He tried to move his fingers. They twitched. Weak. Pathetic. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, each one burning slightly like his lungs had forgotten how to work properly.
A heart monitor beeped beside him. IV drip. Thin blanket. Standard recovery room setup.
'How long was I out?'
He turned his head slowly—the movement took effort, like his neck was filled with sand. A window showed gray morning light. Rain streaked down the glass. Somewhere outside, a city hummed with distant traffic.
His reflection stared back from the dark screen of a powered-off TV mounted on the wall.
He froze.
That face.
Thin. Pale. A kid's face, maybe fourteen, with messy black hair and hollow cheeks. Dark circles under eyes that looked too old for the skin they sat in.
'What the fuck?'
His hand—small, bony, weak—rose to touch his jaw. The reflection copied. His fingers traced unfamiliar features: sharper nose, narrower chin, no scars.
No scars.
He'd earned two dozen scars across fifteen years of wetwork. Knife wounds. Bullet grazes. A burn from a Molotov in Lagos. All of them—gone.
This wasn't his body.
His breath quickened. The heart monitor beeped faster. Memories crashed into him like freight trains colliding in the dark.
[FLASHBACK]
Convention center. Bright lights. Crowds in costumes. The smell of sweat and cheap fabric.
Tyler—no, that was his name before—standing in a heated argument with some unwashed neckbeards about power scaling and anime bullshit that didn't matter.
The glint of steel.
Sharp pain splitting his abdomen.
Blood pooling warm and fast beneath him.
His friend's scream distorting as the world tilted sideways.
Darkness.
[END FLASHBACK]
'I died.'
The thought settled cold and factual in his mind. No panic. No existential crisis. Just data processing.
He died. And woke up here.
Reincarnation. Isekai. Whatever dumbass term applied.
He took a slow breath, forcing his heart rate down. The monitor's beeping slowed. Control. Always control.
'Okay. Assess.'
He flexed his fingers again. Weak grip strength. Muscle atrophy from bedrest. His legs felt like dead weight under the blanket. He tried to sit up—pain lanced through his ribs and back.
CRACK.
Something in his spine popped. He hissed through his teeth and collapsed back onto the pillow.
'Beaten. Recently.'
His hands explored under the blanket. Bandages wrapped his torso. Bruised ribs, maybe cracked. His left shoulder was stiff—probably dislocated, then reset. His face felt swollen on one side.
Someone had worked him over. Thoroughly.
The door creaked open.
A nurse stepped in—middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a clipboard. She glanced at him, then froze.
"Oh! You're awake!" Her voice was too loud. "Let me get the doctor—"
"Wait." His voice came out raspy, unfamiliar. He cleared his throat. "How long?"
She hesitated. "You've been unconscious for six days. We weren't sure if—"
"What happened?"
Her expression shifted. Pity. The kind of look people give victims. "You were assaulted. Three students from your school. They... it was severe."
'Students. School. This body is a kid.'
"Do you remember anything?" she asked gently.
He closed his eyes, searching through the fragmented memories embedded in this meat puppet he now wore. Flashes came back:
Laughter. Cruel voices. A fist wreathed in flames. Something invisible gripping his throat and slamming him into concrete. Over and over and over.
"Quirkless trash."
Boot pressing down on his face.
"Should've been aborted."
Darkness.
Kenji opened his eyes. The nurse watched him, waiting.
"I remember," he said quietly.
'Quirkless.'
That word stuck like a blade between ribs. This world had something called Quirks—genetic superpowers. And this body didn't have one.
The nurse's pity deepened. She probably thought he was traumatized. Broken.
'Good.'
"I'll get the doctor. And your mother is in the waiting room—she's been here every day. I'll bring her in."
"No." The word came out harder than intended. He softened his tone. "Not yet. I need... a minute."
She nodded sympathetically and left.
Kenji stared at the ceiling.
Quirkless. Fourteen. Beaten into a coma.
'Bottom of the food chain.'
In his previous life, he'd been Viper—a ghost who ended targets with car keys, piano wire, and patience. He didn't need powers. Just skill.
This world thought powers mattered.
'They're wrong.'
He turned his head toward the window. Rain blurred the city beyond. Somewhere out there, people with fire hands and telekinesis and flight went about their lives thinking they were special.
A cold smile touched his split lip.
'I've killed worse with less.'
The heart monitor beeped steady. Mechanical. Rhythmic.
Kenji closed his eyes and began inventory. This body was damaged but repairable. Young enough to condition. The mind—his mind, Viper's mind—was intact.
He had time. Resources to acquire. Targets to identify.
Three students had put him here.
'Mistake.'
His fingers curled slowly into a weak fist.
'I don't forgive. I don't forget. I just eliminate problems.'
Outside, thunder rumbled low and distant.
Inside, something far more dangerous woke up.
TO BE CONTINUED