Chapter 2: The Offer

I didn’t sleep that night.

Twelve years old, and my entire world had quietly shifted.

Academy City.

The words kept echoing in my mind, looping over and over until my thoughts spiraled into familiar territory. The plot. The characters. Kamijou Touma. Misaka Mikoto. Accelerator. Misaki Shokuhou.

What if they were real here?

What if I could actually meet Kamijou Touma—my favorite character, the one who had inspired me so much in my last life?

No. That was ridiculous, right?

…Then again, I had literally died and been reincarnated.

So maybe “ridiculous” wasn’t the right word anymore.

By the time sunlight started slipping through the curtains, my brain felt fried. Luckily, it was Sunday. Going to school like this would’ve been torture.

First priority: a shower.

By now, I was mostly okay with my body. Mostly. There were still moments where my brain short-circuited—but that was stupid. It was my body. I wasn’t some kind of creep.

Still, other things felt… off.

I wasn’t really attracted to girls anymore.

At first, I figured it was because I was a kid again. But that didn’t quite add up. Back in my first life, even as a kid, I’d been interested in girls. Then I wondered if maybe my body was affecting my mind.

I tested that theory.

…It didn’t really lead anywhere.

I decided not to think about it too much.

At least the shower helped calm me down.

By the time I stepped out, towel over my head, I’d made up my mind. I wasn’t going to hide anything. There was no point. If Academy City was really involved, secrecy would only make things worse.

I got dressed and headed for the kitchen.

That’s when I saw them.

Mom and Dad were sitting at the table, heads lowered, serious expressions fixed on a single object between them.

A letter.

My mood lifted for half a second—until I noticed their faces.

“Mom? Dad?” I asked, approaching cautiously. “What happened? Why do you look so serious?”

My mother looked up and smiled gently, though worry lingered in her eyes.
“Mirai, honey… could you sit with us for a moment?”

I pulled out a chair and sat across from them, facing my mom while my dad sat beside her.

My dad spoke first.

“Mirai, we received some news,” he said, forcing a calm smile. “This letter… it’s addressed to you.”

He slid it across the table.

“It’s an offer. An incredible opportunity. But it would mean being far away from us. For a long time.”

I opened the envelope.

And there it was.

“Academy City,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

My mom blinked in surprise. “You’ve heard of it then?”

…Yeah.

In this life, I hadn’t. But in my previous one, it was practically burned into my brain. One of my favorite series. The reason I’d started reading novels in the first place.

I probably knew more about Academy City than most people in this world.

After reading the letter properly, I understood why my parents were worried. I’d have to transfer schools, move somewhere far away, live alone, and visits wouldn’t be easy.

They were scared I’d be lonely.

I, on the other hand…

I was thrilled.

Meeting characters from the series. Seeing Academy City with my own eyes. The possibilities made my heart race.

That excitement blinded me.

Because not long after we sent our response, people from Academy City came to our house.

Men in suits. Polite smiles. Way too many documents.

They explained things. Contracts. Evaluations. Opportunities.

My parents struggled with the paperwork. I struggled even more—kanji are hard, okay? In the end, we relied mostly on the explanations we were given.

I didn’t like that.

But I ignored the unease.

I should’ve known Academy City never did anything without a reason.

They were interested in my healing.

They suspected I might be a Gemstone—an esper who developed abilities naturally.

That was why I’d been chosen.

The next few weeks passed quietly. Too quietly.

I said goodbye to my teachers. To my friends. Packed my things. Everyone congratulated me, told me how proud they were.

And then the day came.

The day I left for Academy City.

Mom and Dad were nervous, but I couldn’t stop smiling. I grinned the entire drive to the airport, and eventually, their worry softened into hesitant smiles.

“Mirai,” my mom said, hugging me tightly. “Call us often, okay? Eat properly. Brush your teeth every day.”

My dad chuckled and handed me something small. “And remember—you can always count on us.”

I looked down.

A keychain.

My eyes widened.

Tony Tony Chopper.

“Oh my god—he’s so cute!” I practically yelled, jumping up to hug them both. “Thank you! I’ll treasure him forever!”

Back in my old life, I’d loved Zoro.

But here?

Chopper felt different.

Someone who didn’t quite fit in anywhere. Not fully human. Not fully something else.

Yeah.

I understood him. and also, he's very cute now for some reason.

And as I boarded the plane, clutching that keychain tight, I had no idea what awaited me.

Only that my future was about to change—again.

Academy City was bigger than I imagined.

And that was saying something, considering I’d read about it for years.

From the moment the plane descended, I could tell this place was different. The city stretched endlessly beneath us, dense clusters of buildings packed unnaturally close together. Everything looked clean. Too clean. Like a carefully maintained experiment rather than a place people actually lived.

As soon as I stepped outside the airport, the air felt different. Colder. Sharper. Like it was buzzing faintly against my skin.

This was it.

Academy City.

The city of espers.

My excitement surged again despite everything. This was real. I was really here. Part of me half-expected someone from the novels to bump into me right then and there.

Reality, unfortunately, had other plans.

I wasn’t alone for long.

Men in identical suits approached me before I could even take in the surroundings properly. Polite. Efficient. Smiling just enough to feel practiced.

“Aihara Mirai,” one of them said, already knowing the answer. “Welcome to Academy City.”

They guided me away before I could even look back.

The drive was quiet. Too quiet. No casual chatter. No explanations. Just the hum of the vehicle and the city passing by outside the window.

The buildings grew taller.

Denser.

More oppressive.

Eventually, we stopped in front of a facility that didn’t look like a school.

White walls. Minimal windows. Security gates.

My excitement faltered.

“This is… the dorm?” I asked hesitantly.

One of the men smiled. “A temporary medical facility. Routine evaluations only. Standard procedure for scholarship students.”

Routine.

I swallowed and nodded.

I didn’t have much of a choice anyway.

The tests started immediately.

At first, they were simple. Physical exams. Reflex tests. Blood samples. Scans I didn’t recognize, machines humming softly as they passed over my body.

Doctors spoke in clinical tones, jotting things down, whispering to each other when they thought I wasn’t listening.

“Recovery rate is abnormal.”
“No scarring.”
“Cellular activity exceeds baseline.”

“…But there’s no AIM field.”

They asked me to exercise. To get hurt.

Small cuts at first.

A needle. A shallow blade.

I watched in silence as the wounds closed faster than they should have.

Not instant.

But fast enough that, at some point, they became certain something wasn’t right.

I was moved deeper into the facility.

Rooms without windows.

Beds with restraints I pretended not to notice.

They told me it was necessary.

They told me it was for my safety.

They told me my parents had already agreed.

That was the moment my stomach dropped.

The first time I realized something was wrong, it was because no one told me when I could go home.

Days blurred together.

Or maybe weeks.

Time stopped meaning anything in places without sunlight.

They tested my regeneration constantly. Cuts. Bruises. Controlled injuries. Each time they recorded how fast my body repaired itself. Each time they pushed a little further.

“You’re not an esper,” one of them muttered once. “At least… not yet.”

That word stuck with me.

Yet.

They started introducing drugs.

“Curriculum,” they called it.

I knew that word.

My blood ran cold.

Electrodes were attached to my head. Machines monitored my brain activity. AIM field readings flashed across screens I couldn’t understand.

At first, nothing happened.

Then came the headaches.

Sharp. Piercing. Like something was trying to carve itself into my skull.

I screamed.

They told me to endure it.

They said pain was data.

I bit down and cried anyway.

Sometimes I’d pass out.

Sometimes I’d wake up strapped to the bed again.

I asked for my parents.

They told me they were busy.

They told me not to worry.

They told me they’d signed everything.

That was worse than the pain.

The breakthrough came suddenly.

Quietly.

They placed me in a room with another child.

An esper.

A boy about my age, eyes darting around the room, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

“Activate your ability,” they told him.

He shook his head.

They shocked him.

The scream came first.

Then lightning burst from his hands, uncontrolled and wild, scorching the floor where it struck.

I flinched—

and something brushed against me.

Not pain.

Not sound.

Pressure.

For the briefest moment, my thoughts felt… misaligned. Like a radio turned half a degree off frequency.

I didn’t see anything happen.

I didn’t feel stronger.

I didn’t even know what I was supposed to be sensing.

The machines did.

Alarms spiked.

Graphs twisted into shapes I couldn’t understand.

“AIM field—”
“No, that’s impossible—”
“She didn’t have one before.”

The boy collapsed, sobbing.

I was still standing.

“Run it again,” someone said, voice tight with something that wasn’t excitement.

“Compare the waveforms.”

I looked down at my hands.

Nothing seemed different

But the room felt different now.

Like it was leaning toward me.

“She’s not emitting her own,” another voice whispered.

“She’s copying it.”

Silence followed.

Then—

“Record everything.”

I still didn’t understand what had happened.

But they did.

And suddenly, my healing wasn’t the most interesting thing about me anymore.

They didn’t send me back to my room after that.

Instead, I've been left in that room with the other kid for felt like an eternity.

eventually, the door opened again, slower this time.

A woman walked in.

She wasn’t wearing the same white coat as the others. Hers was darker, tailored, the fabric pressed so sharply it almost looked ceremonial. Her hair was tied back in a low ponytail, not a strand out of place. Thin glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, reflecting the scrolling data on the monitors behind me.

She didn’t look at the boy.

She didn’t look at the scorch marks.

She looked at me.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then she smiled.

Not warmly.

Not cruelly.

Interested.

“So you’re the one,” she said.

The room shifted immediately.

Researchers straightened. Voices lowered. Someone turned off an alarm without being told.

“I’m Kihara Atsuko,” she continued, crouching slightly so we were at eye level. “I oversee anomalous esper development.”

I didn’t like the way she said anomalous.

“Do you know what an AIM field is, Mirai?”

I shook my head.

Inside, I was screaming.

Of course I knew.

AIM Diffusion Fields.
The invisible byproduct of an esper’s Personal Reality interacting with the world. The thing Academy City measured before anything else. The thing that defined what kind of monster—or miracle—you were allowed to become.

But I kept my face blank. Confused. Twelve years old and out of my depth.

“That’s fine,” she said easily. “Most children don’t. Most espers don’t either.”

She stood and turned toward the screens, long fingers folding behind her back.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Lying felt wrong.

But telling the truth felt dangerous.

She studied the screens.

Kihara’s eyes narrowed slightly as she studied the graphs.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “You’re not producing anything on your own.”

She paused.

“Yet the pattern is unmistakable.”

My head started to hurt again.

“Run the test again,” she said.

Someone protested.

“I know,” Kihara replied. “That’s the point.”

They brought in another subject.

Then another.

My thoughts blurred.

Pain pressed inward.

I thought I heard my mother’s voice.

Then—

Nothing.