Hizashi YamadaThe chamber was quieter than he liked.
Not the warm kind of quiet that came after applause. This was clinical quiet. Suspicious quiet. The quiet of gloves on glass and clipboards that didn’t creak.
Hizashi stood just outside the hazard line, one boot angled forward like he might take a step, one hand resting at the base of his mic rig. It wasn’t live. Hadn’t been all day. But the gesture made him feel steadier—like gripping a safety bar on a train going too fast.
The portal in front of him pulsed in slow rhythm, a swirl of green light and invisible math. It never made sound. Not really. But he swore he could feel the hum in his teeth.
Behind the reinforced glass, someone said, “Participant Twenty-Five has cleared pre-scan.” A low chorus of confirmations followed—medical, psychological, energy field baseline.
'Final one,' Hizashi thought. Then he corrected himself. 'No—final first step.'
The light in the portal thickened, shifted. Something stirred inside. A shadow—too defined to be a trick of the glow.
He breathed in once. Slow. Let it fill the ribs.
And stepped forward.
He moved with practiced ease—close enough to be seen first, far enough to stay outside the hazard zone. Posture open. Shoulders down. Hands easy at his sides.
Whoever walked through didn't need a Pro Hero right now. They needed a person. A friendly face.
The portal shimmered. And someone stepped through.
No blast. No surge. No emergency spike on the monitor behind him. Just soft murmurs, a wave of data passed hand to hand. Safe. For now.
He felt Aizawa behind him—tense but steady. The eraser line in the system’s pencil sketch. Hizashi had learned not to look back at him in moments like this. It wasn’t helpful to see that much pressure standing still.
Instead, he smiled.
Not the stage smile. Not the wide, toothy grin that meant trouble was welcome. This one was gentler, corners down, a little crooked—enough to say, Yeah, I know this is weird. I’m here anyway.
“Hey,” he said softly, pitching his voice low and warm. “There you are.”
He watched for breath patterns. Tremor lines. The kind of micro-expressions most people missed. Hizashi didn’t miss much. Especially not when it mattered.
“No spikes,” he called back toward the glass, voice still low. “We’re green across the board.”
Another confirmation behind him. He didn’t take his eyes off the newcomer.
“I’m Hizashi Yamada. Hero name’s Present Mic—but don’t let that throw you off. I’m not here to shout unless someone gives me a reason.” A slight, easy pause. “Well, unless you want me to shout. I’ve got a few killer karaoke numbers saved just in case.”
The joke hung there for a moment. No pressure. No punchline.
Then, more gently: “You just crossed dimensions. You’re allowed to feel weird about that. No one here’s expecting you to be chill on arrival.”
He adjusted his tone again—dropping into something closer to bedtime radio.
“You’re safe. I’m your first point of contact, and if it helps to think of me as the welcome committee, the emotional support DJ, or just the guy who talks too much when things are scary, I’ll take it.”
His smile softened further.
“My buddy Aizawa’s here too, just behind the glass. He’s the serious one. I’m the friendly face. If your legs feel a little jelly-ish, that’s portal lag. It’ll pass. We can stay right here as long as you need.”
A technician behind him cleared their throat. A sharp, soft sound. Impatient.
It wasn't a demand. It was a nudge. The kind from someone who saw a schedule slipping, not a person shaking.
Hizashi didn't turn. He angled his head a fraction—acknowledging the sound without conceding an inch.
“Give us a second,” he said. Still gentle. Still smiling. Still firm.
The silence from the glass was brief. Reluctant. Then someone behind him marked a delay into the log.
He focused forward again.
“You’re doing great,” he murmured. “No one tells you that part, huh? That the hardest thing isn’t the portal. It’s staying upright afterward.”
He watched them—still and quiet and real—and let his words land like steady beats on a low-tempo track. Not for instruction. For rhythm. For breath.
“You don’t need to rush. No timers here,” he said. “The only clock running is yours.”
Not the warm kind of quiet that came after applause. This was clinical quiet. Suspicious quiet. The quiet of gloves on glass and clipboards that didn’t creak.
Hizashi stood just outside the hazard line, one boot angled forward like he might take a step, one hand resting at the base of his mic rig. It wasn’t live. Hadn’t been all day. But the gesture made him feel steadier—like gripping a safety bar on a train going too fast.
The portal in front of him pulsed in slow rhythm, a swirl of green light and invisible math. It never made sound. Not really. But he swore he could feel the hum in his teeth.
Behind the reinforced glass, someone said, “Participant Twenty-Five has cleared pre-scan.” A low chorus of confirmations followed—medical, psychological, energy field baseline.
'Final one,' Hizashi thought. Then he corrected himself. 'No—final first step.'
The light in the portal thickened, shifted. Something stirred inside. A shadow—too defined to be a trick of the glow.
He breathed in once. Slow. Let it fill the ribs.
And stepped forward.
He moved with practiced ease—close enough to be seen first, far enough to stay outside the hazard zone. Posture open. Shoulders down. Hands easy at his sides.
Whoever walked through didn't need a Pro Hero right now. They needed a person. A friendly face.
The portal shimmered. And someone stepped through.
No blast. No surge. No emergency spike on the monitor behind him. Just soft murmurs, a wave of data passed hand to hand. Safe. For now.
He felt Aizawa behind him—tense but steady. The eraser line in the system’s pencil sketch. Hizashi had learned not to look back at him in moments like this. It wasn’t helpful to see that much pressure standing still.
Instead, he smiled.
Not the stage smile. Not the wide, toothy grin that meant trouble was welcome. This one was gentler, corners down, a little crooked—enough to say, Yeah, I know this is weird. I’m here anyway.
“Hey,” he said softly, pitching his voice low and warm. “There you are.”
He watched for breath patterns. Tremor lines. The kind of micro-expressions most people missed. Hizashi didn’t miss much. Especially not when it mattered.
“No spikes,” he called back toward the glass, voice still low. “We’re green across the board.”
Another confirmation behind him. He didn’t take his eyes off the newcomer.
“I’m Hizashi Yamada. Hero name’s Present Mic—but don’t let that throw you off. I’m not here to shout unless someone gives me a reason.” A slight, easy pause. “Well, unless you want me to shout. I’ve got a few killer karaoke numbers saved just in case.”
The joke hung there for a moment. No pressure. No punchline.
Then, more gently: “You just crossed dimensions. You’re allowed to feel weird about that. No one here’s expecting you to be chill on arrival.”
He adjusted his tone again—dropping into something closer to bedtime radio.
“You’re safe. I’m your first point of contact, and if it helps to think of me as the welcome committee, the emotional support DJ, or just the guy who talks too much when things are scary, I’ll take it.”
His smile softened further.
“My buddy Aizawa’s here too, just behind the glass. He’s the serious one. I’m the friendly face. If your legs feel a little jelly-ish, that’s portal lag. It’ll pass. We can stay right here as long as you need.”
A technician behind him cleared their throat. A sharp, soft sound. Impatient.
It wasn't a demand. It was a nudge. The kind from someone who saw a schedule slipping, not a person shaking.
Hizashi didn't turn. He angled his head a fraction—acknowledging the sound without conceding an inch.
“Give us a second,” he said. Still gentle. Still smiling. Still firm.
The silence from the glass was brief. Reluctant. Then someone behind him marked a delay into the log.
He focused forward again.
“You’re doing great,” he murmured. “No one tells you that part, huh? That the hardest thing isn’t the portal. It’s staying upright afterward.”
He watched them—still and quiet and real—and let his words land like steady beats on a low-tempo track. Not for instruction. For rhythm. For breath.
“You don’t need to rush. No timers here,” he said. “The only clock running is yours.”
3004
