I keep waiting for something to happen.

Some flicker of electricity. A sharp tingle. A headache. A moment where the world spins, and I snap back to myself. Maybe a dramatic light show or at least some weird internal pop.

But it's been days now.

And I feel...

Nothing.

No shift.

No warning.

No "haha surprise, this was temporary!"

Just fur and silence.

Mirko's apartment is big—high ceilings, open rooms, lots of natural light. Perfect for running drills and sulking dramatically in sunbeams. She calls me "Mochi" now like it's my government name. She's stuck with me through training, snacks, and even the two times I tried to bolt and she caught me mid-air with one hand like a misbehaving plushie.

But even with all that, I'm starting to feel it.

The hollowness.

The creeping, itchy thought that I might not get out of this.

That maybe this is it.

That maybe I manifested a quirk, and instead of getting a cool power or explosive skill like everyone else, I got stuck.

In a rabbit.

Forever.

The thought hits in waves. First like cold water. Then like lead.

Mirko's been quiet about it. I think she knows I'm struggling—she's not oblivious. But she doesn't push. She just keeps throwing training exercises at me like they're medicine.

And I... I go along with it.

Mostly.

But sometimes?

Sometimes I slip.

I catch myself twitching my ears toward distant sounds. Reacting before she even moves. Zoning out completely while grooming my front paws like it's the most normal thing in the world.

I freeze afterward, horror in my gut.

That's not me.

That's not how I think.

That's not how I move.

But then it fades, and I'm back to my internal monologue of screaming and spiraling and wondering if I've somehow been split in half.

Like there's human Izuku in here, buried under instincts that don't belong to me.

And Mirko sees it.

I know she does.

Today she caught me mid-groom.

I was licking my forearm. Innocent enough, right?

Until she crouched down, slowly, not smiling.

"You good, Mochi?"

I blinked.

Wiped my paw against my face.

Realized what I was doing and nearly keeled over in embarrassment.

She didn't laugh.

Didn't joke.

Didn't toss a sock at me like usual.

She just watched.

Like she was thinking something.

I hopped away before I could figure out what.

Now she's been quiet. Observing me more. Changing her approach in training.

More unpredictable movements. Loud noises. Lights. Things that make me flinch.

She's testing me.

I think she's scared.

Not of me.

For me.

And I don't blame her.

Because I've started to forget what my voice sounds like.

I keep trying to scream—internally, silently, whatever—but all that comes out is a soft huff of breath or that tiny, twitchy click sound rabbits make when they're annoyed.

I didn't even know that until she googled it.

"You're grumbling again," she muttered last night, amused.

I hadn't realized I was doing it.

I don't even remember starting.

That terrifies me.

The worst part?

I think I'm adapting.

And that means I'm slipping.

This morning I woke up curled in a tight ball under one of her shirts, perfectly still. I didn't panic, didn't bolt, didn't cry. I just... lay there. Warm. Fuzzy.

Fine.

I shouldn't feel fine.

I want to scream that from every rooftop in Japan. I shouldn't be okay with this. I shouldn't be settling into this life like it's normal.

I'm not a rabbit.

I'm not.

Right?

Mirko walked past earlier, tossing me a dried apple slice. I didn't think. Just caught it and chewed. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just pure instinct.

Her eyes lingered on me again.

Too long.

She doesn't say anything. But she knows. I can feel it. She's piecing it together, even if she doesn't understand what it means yet.

No one does.

Because this isn't a spell.

Or a curse.

It's a quirk.

My quirk.

This is what I get.

Years of being told I'd never get one. That I was quirkless. That I'd always be behind, always be weak, always be nothing.

And then the universe decides to throw me a bone?

Only to turn me into a literal rodent?

Cool. Love that. Totally worth the trauma.

The part that makes my gut clench, though—the part that's slowly breaking my brain into little cotton-stuffed pieces—is this:

What if this isn't a side effect?

What if this isn't temporary?

What if this... is the quirk?

Not "I turn into a rabbit."

But "I am a rabbit."

No undo.

No switch.

Just... this.

A survival quirk.

A total body transformation triggered by danger and panic and emotional collapse—and no return route.

Because the body remembers.

The trauma sticks.

And my quirk did exactly what it was designed to do: save me.

At the cost of me.

I curl up tighter beneath the shirt, heart pounding like a snare drum, fur damp from the dew of existential panic.

Mirko's moving around in the other room, pretending she's not worried. I can hear her muttering. She thinks I can't tell. But her steps are off—slower, more careful.

She knows.

Not the whole truth.

Not yet.

But she knows something's wrong.

And honestly?

I'm scared she's going to say it before I do.

Because once someone says it out loud...

Once someone confirms it's permanent...

Once I hear the words "he's not changing back"...

I don't know if I'll be able to hope anymore.