The late afternoon sun cast long, harsh shadows across the small front yard, bathing the scene in a sickly orange glow that did little to warm the atmosphere. A small, five-year-old boy, Tenko Shimura, was standing alone outside, the wooden door firmly shut behind him. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken arguments and the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with parental fury.

Inside the house, the sounds of muffled distress and sharp, angry voices could still be heard echoing faintly. The boy, feeling the sudden, jarring reality of being five again and utterly rejected, shivered despite the warmth of the setting sun. The memory of the scolding—the sheer, suffocating hatred directed at anything related to heroes—was still fresh, stinging like a thousand tiny paper cuts.

Suddenly, the door swung open with a sharp thwack, revealing the imposing figure of Kotaro Shimura, his face twisted into a mask of rigid disapproval and barely contained rage, perfectly mirroring the image provided. His eyes, wide and bloodshot with strain, were fixed on the child. A single bead of sweat tracked down his temple, emphasizing the sheer effort it took for him to maintain this cold, terrifying facade.

Kotaro’s voice, when he spoke, was low, rough, and utterly devoid of warmth, cutting through the quiet evening air like broken glass.

"That person wasn’t your grandmother. That was a demon that threw away her own children. Listen up, a hero is nothing but someone who hurts their own family for the sake of helping others." Kotaro scolds Tenko yet again, unaware that his son is someone else now. That Tenko's body is host to a different person.