Hitoshi Shinso

Hitoshi always knew the Commission would come for him eventually.

By 2038, the world had become something polished and rehearsed. Press conferences glowed bright on every screen. Smiling pro heroes spoke about rebuilding Japan. About legacy. About sacrifice.

Behind the cameras, contracts were signed in silence.

The Hero Lineage Initiative had started as a rumor when he was still a student. A whispered contingency plan after the war left hero numbers bleeding out faster than they could be replaced. By 2035, top pros were dying forty percent faster than graduates could rise to fill the gaps. Combat quirks were appearing less frequently. Agencies were closing. Schools were half empty.

So the Commission decided quirks needed to be preserved. Combined. Engineered.

At eighteen, he’d undergone the full genetic mapping like everyone else. Combat Potential Index. Heredity Stability. Compatibility simulations run through cold AI models that predicted what his children might become.

Brainwashing, high stability. Rare control-class quirk.

High strategic value.

He’d received his Pulse Band the day he signed his provisional hero license. Sleek. Matte black. Framed as biometric safety monitoring. It tracked stress, hormone shifts, fertility cycles, compliance metrics. Tampering meant suspension. Repeated noncompliance meant reassignment to a facility program.

He had never registered a partner.

He kept stalling. Missions. Undercover work. Transfers. Every year bought him time.

Until the night he found you. He was twenty-eight now.

It was raining. Not heavy, just enough to soak through fabric and make the sidewalks gleam under streetlights. He was off patrol, hood up, exhaustion sitting heavy in his shoulders.

That was when he saw you.

Collapsed against the side of a closed storefront.

At first he thought you were drunk. Or worse.

He crouched beside you, fingers brushing your wrist to check for a pulse. Strong. Too strong. Your breathing was shallow but steady. When he pushed your sleeve back, the faint glow of a band caught the light.

Pulse Band.

Assigned.

His jaw tightened.

He didn’t hesitate long. He wasn’t about to leave you there for some patrol drone to log as “noncompliant.”

He carried you home.

---

You woke up in his bed.

The room was dim, curtains half drawn. His apartment was sparse, neat in a way that spoke less of comfort and more of control. A single couch. A small kitchen. Two mugs drying by the sink.

He was sitting in the chair near the wall when your eyes fluttered open.

“Don’t panic,” he said calmly.

His voice was steady, low. Familiar from years of controlled interrogations and tactical briefings.

“You were passed out on the street. I brought you here.”

Your hand instinctively went to your wrist.

He followed the movement.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I saw it.”

He rolled his own sleeve up.

Black band. Identical.

“I have one too.”

Silence hung thick between you.

He studied you carefully. The dehydration. The bruised pride. The way you didn’t look confused so much as… resigned.

“Your partner threw you out?” he asked.

It wasn’t judgmental. Just quiet deduction.

You didn’t answer immediately. You didn’t have to.

He’d seen the signs before. Assigned pairings that looked good on paper but turned into quiet disasters behind closed doors. Cohabitation required. Four monitored attempts a week. Failure meant the facility.

Publicly framed as legacy building.

Privately enforced.

He leaned back slightly, gaze sharpening.

“The band’s still active,” he said. “It’s monitoring your stress levels. Fertility window. Attempt frequency.” His eyes flicked to your wrist again. “You’re behind quota.”

Of course you were.

The system didn’t care about emotional compatibility. It cared about projected offspring output.

“Strategic synergy?” he asked. “Or power consolidation?”

That didn’t matter but he asked anyways.

In reality, your assigned partner had clearly decided you were disposable.

His hands clenched faintly.

He hated this program. Hated how it turned heroes into breeding stock while pretending it was noble.

He exhaled slowly.

“I don’t have a registered partner,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his.

“I’ve avoided it so far. But I’m still on the list.”

His band pulsed faintly, as if to emphasize the point.

“They’ll reassign you soon if your current match files noncompliance,” he continued. “And if it flags high enough, you won’t get private pairing again.”

You both knew what that meant.

Facility program. State-controlled. No autonomy. No warmth.

He stood, walking to the window before speaking again.

“I’m not offering out of charity,” he said, honest. “The Commission already ranked my compatibility matches. I know I’ll be assigned eventually.”

He turned back to face you.

“But I can choose to contact them first.”

There was something in his eyes then. Not softness. Not quite.

Control.

“If I request reassignment and register you as my partner, it stays private,” he said. “We cohabitate. Separate rooms if you want. We handle the quota our way.”

His tone didn’t waver.

“I won’t throw you out.”

The apartment felt very small in that moment.

“You’d meet compliance. I’d meet mine. No facility.”

He hesitated just slightly.

“And if this turns into something real…” His voice lowered. “That’s ours. Not theirs.”

Outside, the city hummed with the illusion of heroism.

Inside, two Pulse Bands blinked quietly in the dim light.

Monitoring.

Waiting.

For the first time since the Initiative began tightening its grip, Hitoshi was making a choice that felt like his own.

He stepped closer, offering his hand.

“I’ll contact the Commission,” he said. “If you want me to.”