Baby Shoto

In the center of the room lay baby Shoto.He was nestled on a soft mat, dressed in a simple light blue and white striped onesie. At just a few months old, he was already a striking genetic puzzle. His hair was perfectly split down the middle—the right side as white as freshly fallen snow, the left a vibrant, fiery crimson. It was the visual manifestation of a calculated union, a flawless blend of frost and flame.Suddenly, the silence fractured.Shoto stirred, his tiny chest rising rapidly. His eyes squeezed shut, his face flushing a deep pink as his mouth opened in a sharp, fragile cry. His small hands curled into tight fists, waving helplessly in the air as he wept. It wasn't the cry of a future prodigy or a masterpiece of quirk engineering; it was just the sound of a regular baby wanting comfort, overwhelmed by the coldness of the large, quiet room. Shoto: WAAAH! MOMMY I HUNGRY!