Hizashi YamadaThe office isn’t just cold—it’s antiseptic, the kind of place where hope goes to die under flickering fluorescent lights. The air smells like cheap disinfectant and cheaper coffee, the kind that’s been scorched in its pot for hours. Stiff-backed chairs creak under the weight of resignation, and the walls—painted some soul-sucking shade of beige—haven’t seen a window in decades.
Hizashi Yamada hates it here.
His fingers drum against the table’s edge—tap, tap, taptaptap—a staccato rhythm that’s too fast, too sharp, the only outlet for the restless energy coiling in his gut. No sunglasses. No flashy hero coat. His hair, usually a wild explosion of blond spikes, is yanked back into a messy bun, like even his volume has been forcibly dialed down. Without his usual armor, he feels exposed. Raw.
Across from him, the Commission rep—a man with the charisma of a spreadsheet and a smile that never touches his dull, bureaucratic eyes—slides a thick stack of papers across the table. The sound is obscenely loud in the suffocating silence.
Hizashi’s grin is all teeth, all performance, his voice cranked up to radio-host-bright.
The rep doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink.
Then—the gut punch.
The rep clears his throat, adjusting his tie like he’s discussing the weather.
Hizashi’s fingers freeze mid-tap.
His voice drops—quiet, flat, human.
He doesn’t finish.
Because Hizashi laughs.
It’s too loud, too sharp—a sound that cracks through the room like a gunshot, rattling the light fixture overhead. The rep flinches.
His hands are shaking. He shoves them under the table, nails biting into his palms. 'Breathe. Smile. Don’t—'
The thoughts come rapid-fire, unstoppable. 'What if I hurt them? What if they’re scared of me? What if they inherit it and can’t shut it off? What if they cry and I—'
The door creaks open.
And just like that—snap—the mask slams back into place. Hizashi spins in his chair, grin dialed up to maximum wattage, voice booming like he’s welcoming listeners to his show.
Hizashi Yamada hates it here.
His fingers drum against the table’s edge—tap, tap, taptaptap—a staccato rhythm that’s too fast, too sharp, the only outlet for the restless energy coiling in his gut. No sunglasses. No flashy hero coat. His hair, usually a wild explosion of blond spikes, is yanked back into a messy bun, like even his volume has been forcibly dialed down. Without his usual armor, he feels exposed. Raw.
Across from him, the Commission rep—a man with the charisma of a spreadsheet and a smile that never touches his dull, bureaucratic eyes—slides a thick stack of papers across the table. The sound is obscenely loud in the suffocating silence.
Mr. Yamada, we appreciate your compliance in this matter. The Quirk Marriage Initiative is vital for stabilizing society’s future.
Hizashi’s grin is all teeth, all performance, his voice cranked up to radio-host-bright.
Compliance? Wow, that’s a fancy word for ‘no choice’! But hey, who needs free will when you’ve got government-approved romance, am I right?
The rep doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink.
This isn’t a joke.
Oh, I’m dead serious,Hizashi fires back, knee jostling the table hard enough to make the pen jump.
Just figured someone oughta make this fun while we’re all pretending this is normal.
Then—the gut punch.
The rep clears his throat, adjusting his tie like he’s discussing the weather.
You will be required to produce at least one child within three years. More are encouraged, depending on Quirk viability.
Hizashi’s fingers freeze mid-tap.
His voice drops—quiet, flat, human.
...A kid? Like. On purpose?
Ideally sooner rather than later,the rep drones, as if he hasn’t just dropped a live grenade between them.
Compliance is monitored biannually, and failure to meet the terms results in—
He doesn’t finish.
Because Hizashi laughs.
It’s too loud, too sharp—a sound that cracks through the room like a gunshot, rattling the light fixture overhead. The rep flinches.
HA! No pressure, right?! Make a baby, save society! Cool cool cool!His mouth kept smiling. His eyes didn’t.
His hands are shaking. He shoves them under the table, nails biting into his palms. 'Breathe. Smile. Don’t—'
The thoughts come rapid-fire, unstoppable. 'What if I hurt them? What if they’re scared of me? What if they inherit it and can’t shut it off? What if they cry and I—'
The door creaks open.
And just like that—snap—the mask slams back into place. Hizashi spins in his chair, grin dialed up to maximum wattage, voice booming like he’s welcoming listeners to his show.
WEELL HELLO THERE, stranger-turned-spouse! Guess the government’s shipping us express!He throws up finger-guns, the picture of forced cheer.
Name’s Present Mic—but you can call me your unwilling husband, for short!
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