The gym smelled like effort and focus — rubber mats, worn gloves, dried sweat, and steel. It was late afternoon, the sun dipping low through frosted windows, casting gold stripes over the floor.
Malik Kurosawa stood on the at across from Kenta, a fellow member of the youth division in the MMA club. Kenta was a year older and known for his compact boxing footwork and precision strikes. Not too flashy. Not too reckless.
"Alright, boys," Coach muttered, stepping back from the center. "First full-contact spar. Malik, control those shock pads. Kenta, don't get cocky."
They both bowed.
Malik rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. The paw-pads on his palms and feet flexed, almost breathing with anticipation.
"Ready when you are," he said, voice cool, lips tugged in a cocky half-smile.
Kenta scoffed. "You sure? I'm not trying to peel you off the wall again."
They moved.
Kenta darted in — two jabs, one low kick. Malik deflected the first punch with a pivot and a gentle repulsion blast from his forearm, altering the angle just enough to avoid full contact. The second punch he redirected with his palm, creating a mini shockwave that threw Kenta slightly off balance.
Then Malik flipped back, his foot grazing the floor with a subtle push — not enough to launch, just enough to slide him back like a dancer across ice.
"You're smoother now," Kenta muttered, repositioning.
"I've been listening to jazz," Malik replied. "Started with Coltrane. Changed how I think about rhythm."
Kenta frowned. "What?"
Malik lunged forward — not with speed, but flow. His left foot tapped the ground, a soft thump, and the pressure released like a coil — launching him into Kenta's guard. He twisted midair and struck with his knee.
WHUMP.
Kenta blocked, barely, but skidded back a full two meters. He grunted.
Coach blew the whistle.
"Break!"
Malik landed, shook out his hands, and gave a respectful nod.
Kenta was still blinking. "What the hell was that move?"
Malik grinned. "Haven't named it yet."
-----
"Smooth work, Malik," his dad said through the grainy video, his backdrop full of sand, stone ruins, and the hum of field lights. "You're starting to move like water."
Malik leaned back in his chair, sipping from a bottle of lemon water. "Coach said the same thing."
"But here's the next step," his father added. "Style."
Malik raised a brow. "I already got style."
"I mean hero style. Signature. What separates the extras from the legends."
"You're talking about a special move."
"Exactly," Atlas Pulse replied, pointing. "A moment that says to everyone watching: This villain's done. This fight's over. You land that, and the world remembers."
Malik leaned forward, now invested. "How'd you come up with yours?"
"Took me years. But it started with instinct — what my body wanted to do naturally. Then I shaped it with training. Then I made it beautiful."
"…Beautiful?"
"Like poetry. One strike that tells your story. So…" His father leaned closer. "What's your story, son?"
Malik didn't answer immediately.
-----
Over the next year, Malik started designing, not just his moves — but himself.
He bought a sketchbook. Then another. He started drawing in the afternoons — between classes, after training, sometimes even during lectures. Suits. Gloves. Reinforced boots with flexible grip. A scarf that fluttered when he launched.
His costume sketches began as basic, but evolved into sleek, kinetic designs. One of them featured a flowing coat, reminiscent of a samurai jacket fused with a street racer aesthetic. Another had compressed pulse panels in the sleeves and shins.
But the design that stuck drew influence from an old manga his dad once sent him — a mysterious warrior with a tall collar, asymmetrical cloak, and confidence that said "I've already won."
"I don't need to look fast," Malik muttered one day, tapping his pen to the sketchpad. "I just need to look like I choose where the fight goes."
-----
Music came next.
At 11, Malik borrowed a guitar from a family friend who owed his mom a favor. At first it was awkward, but over time, the guitar became a new kind of sparring partner. Strings, pressure, rhythm — it helped him learn patience, flow, and feel.
Then came rock music. He'd spend hours looping classic riffs, training while the speakers blasted guitar solos that matched his footwork. AC/DC. Nirvana. X Japan. One Ok Rock. Old Linkin Park.
The beat gave his movement personality.
And more than once, someone walking past the gym would see a kid shadowboxing under strobe lights, headphones on, lost in motion — and swear he was dancing.
-----
By twelve, Malik began naming his moves:
Recoil Lance:
A forward palm thrust that launches an opponent backward at speed, using a timed double pulse to disorient and damage.
Blink Vault:
A footpad-assisted leap in one direction, using air repulsion to zigzag unpredictably — like teleportation through momentum.
Phase Kick:
A sweeping low kick that blasts shockwaves along the ground, forcing enemies to lose balance or leap — setting them up for aerial attacks.
Shock Spiral:
A spinning midair roundhouse that releases a spiraling blast of compressed air outward — both for crowd control and escape.
And his personal favorite, still in testing:
Zero Distance Echo:
A direct-contact repulsion strike followed by a split-second follow-up, using his own rebound force to return immediately for a second, much harder blow — like a delayed punch and echo strike in one.
He practiced late into the night, sometimes using mirrors, sometimes dummies, and sometimes his own shadow — fighting against the fear of who he might one day have to face.
-----
Malik wasn't all chaos. There was a calm under his newfound flash.
He read books — not a lot, but the right ones. Stoic quotes, martial arts scrolls, even fragments from old sutras, his dad once sent him from one of his trips to India. One line stuck with him:
"A warrior's greatest strength is not how hard he hits, but how much peace he can keep while holding that power."
That stuck.
He spoke smooth, often sparking teasing debates. But if someone was struggling? He was there, instantly. Not with pity — with presence.
-----
The arcade buzzed with noise and neon. It was a humid summer evening, just before dinner.
Malik — now 13, dressed in a zip-up hoodie, wireless earbuds hanging around his neck — lounged in a corner booth sketching costume upgrades while sipping on soda. His left foot tapped to a beat, unconsciously mirroring the music overhead.
In his sketchbook, the current drawing showed his silhouette midair, launching through shockwaves like a comet.
"Yo, Malik!"
He looked up to see his friend Daiki waving him over near the VR boxing section. "We need one more for 3v3. You in?"
Malik closed the sketchpad, slid it into his backpack, and smiled.
"You had me at yo."
He slung his bag over one shoulder and jogged over, not with haste, but with rhythm — always light on his feet, like his body was just waiting for the music to kick in.
Because Malik Kurosawa was many things:
A fighter.
An artist.
A dreamer.
But above all…
He was a boy learning how to push forward —
without ever losing himself.
-----
The clink of weights. The hiss of exhaled breath. The rhythm of training — steady, pulsing, alive.
Inside the low-lit gym, 14-year-old Malik Kurosawa exhaled through his nose as he pushed the barbell overhead, arms tense and controlled. His body had started to shift over the past few year — no longer lanky, now lean, all coiled power and effortless motion. A small towel hung around his neck, and his wireless headphones pumped in the distorted crunch of a guitar solo that surged like adrenaline through his limbs.
As the final riff peaked, Malik re-racked the weights and sat up. He rolled his shoulders, wiped sweat from his brow, and let his muscles cool down. His playlist switched to a slower, groovier bass-heavy track.
He nodded once to himself.
"That's the one."
-----
The air outside the gym was crisp with early evening haze, the kind that made neon signs glow just a little more vividly. Malik walked with a slight bounce in his step, hoodie sleeves rolled up, backpack slung low. The streets of the shopping district buzzed with the quiet hum of city life.
He passed a café, a bookstore, a noodle stall.
Then — a glowing music shop sign caught his eye. Strings, Beats & Rhythm.
"Perfect," he muttered.
As the glass doors opened, a familiar twang of a bassline greeted him. His lips curled into a grin. He was still humming along to the track in his headphones — a classic rock hit with just the right amount of grime in the chords and weight in the groove.
His fingers absentmindedly traced the frets of an imaginary bass.
The store was softly lit, warm and cozy with wood panel floors and dozens of guitars, basses, drums, and amps lining the walls. He made his way over to the instrument racks, nodding to a worker, and paused in front of a sleek, black five-string bass, running a hand gently along its neck.
"Smooth," he muttered.
"That's a nice one," came a dry, almost flat voice from a few feet away. "Good taste. Most people your age don't even look at basses."
Malik turned, blinking.
She was about his age — short, lavender-haired, with sharp eyes and a cool vibe, wearing dark jeans, a layered shirt, and a hoodie half-zipped under a sleeveless vest. Earphone jacks dangled from her earlobes, twitching slightly as she sized him up.
Her voice was calm, almost unimpressed — but curious.
"…You were humming something just now," she added, arms crossed. "Was that Wired Impact?"
Malik smirked. "Caught that, huh?"
"Yeah," she replied, tilting her head slightly. "I thought only old rockheads knew them."
"I'm an old soul with good taste." He extended a hand. "Kurosawa Malik"
She looked at it, gave a small smirk of her own, and took it.
"Kyoka Jiro. And yeah… not bad. Still, you don't exactly look like the 'bass groove' type. More like the 'kick the amp over and scream at the ceiling' type."
Malik laughed — genuinely.
"Well, I do kick things, so fair."
Kyoka raised an eyebrow. "Quirk stuff?"
"Yup. Foot-based propulsion. Shockwaves. I bounce, redirect, and fly across rooms like a pinball on Red Bull."
"…Cool."
"And you?"
She tapped one of her jacks. "I use sound. Channel vibrations into my attacks. Mostly through the ground. But I like music way more than combat."
He nodded. "Makes sense. You've got that musician energy."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're cool and blunt. But still nice underneath. It's kinda dangerous."
Her earlobes twitched. "Dangerous?"
"Cool and cute. That combo should be illegal."
Kyoka blinked.
Then turned her head to the side quickly, trying — and failing — to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks.
"…You're annoying," she muttered.
Malik grinned. "I've been called worse."
They ended up browsing together, slowly walking the aisles, pointing out different instruments and teasing each other about their musical preferences.
Kyoka made fun of his soft spot for rhythm-heavy solos and jazz-inspired distortion.
He called her a metalhead with sad indie energy.
She told him she liked drums too — "Hitting things is therapeutic."
He nodded solemnly, "Respect. That's the warrior's instrument."
She looked at him sideways. "…You're weird."
He shrugged. "Better than boring."
Eventually, the clerk announced they'd be closing soon. Malik checked the time and sighed.
"Gotta head out," he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "It's getting late."
Kyoka hesitated, fiddling with her phone.
"…Hey," she said casually, "you got, like, LINE or something?"
He paused, one brow raised.
Kyoka looked away. "I mean, you're not totally annoying. Just mostly."
Malik chuckled.
Instead of answering, he held out his hand.
She blinked. "What?"
"Phone," he said, fingers wiggling. "Let me make it easy."
After a second of hesitation, she handed it over. He tapped in his info quickly, name and emoji and all, then handed it back.
"Shoot me a song rec later," he said. "Or a bass line to learn."
Then, with a wink and a smirk, he stepped backward out the door.
"Later, Kyoka."
"…Later, dork," she muttered, but her smile lingered longer than she expected.
-----
The streets had quieted down. The sky above was a tapestry of deep blues and purples, stars just barely beginning to peek through.
Malik walked with a steady rhythm, still humming that same song — headphones off now, world sharp around the edges. His mind wandered between training drills, soundwaves, and the curve of that five-string bass.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. Real. Close.
His body froze mid-step.
He turned his head toward the alley two blocks away, instincts flaring. The pads on his feet tensed unconsciously, energy coiling.
His eyes narrowed.
"Peace when possible. Action when necessary."
– his father's words.
Malik exhaled slowly. The air around his hands shimmered faintly.
He stepped off the sidewalk and toward the sound, leaving the fading city lights behind.