Mumen Rider in MHA

Rain drizzled through Kamino's tight streets, not a storm—just a steady, soaking sadness. The kind of rain that made everything heavier. Roof tiles dripped. Gutters overflowed. Air tasted like rust and smoke.

Satoru Kojima pedaled on.

His new armor—sturdy, dull bronze with reinforced joints—gleamed faintly beneath the downpour. His helmet's visor caught dim light from the alleys. No cape. No symbol. Just him. Just the armor Sayaka and Keiko had quietly saved up for. Just Mumen Rider.

He passed shuttered stores and broken vending machines. Passed graffiti that read "HELMET GUY STILL RIDES" in spray-paint red. No one waved tonight. Kamino was too quiet. Too still.

---

A shout cracked the silence.

"Help! Up there—!"

Satoru's tires screamed against wet pavement as he skidded to a halt in front of a five-story residential block. Smoke curled from a third-story window.

A short-circuit fire, probably. Old wiring. Kamino's buildings were always one tremor from collapse.

He didn't wait.

---

By the time he reached the third floor, the hallway was already fogged with smoke. He didn't shout—his voice wouldn't carry through this heat. Instead, he moved room to room, methodically, until he heard a child's wail.

A mother was crouched in a far corner, shielding her toddler. Her leg was twisted, swelling fast.

She flinched when she saw him. "Are you…?"

He offered no answer. Just knelt, scooped the child gently into one arm, and motioned for the mother to brace herself.

Her breath hitched when he lifted her, pain shooting through her injured ankle—but she didn't cry out. He carried them both.

The stairwell was a furnace. Rain hissed through a shattered window. He used it. Broke through the frame with his shoulder and took the fire escape down step by careful step.

---

By the time he hit the street, people had gathered. No one cheered. Some raised phones. Most just stared.

He set the child down first, then lowered the mother onto a dry patch of sidewalk. The paramedics were only now arriving.

Someone whispered, "That's… him, isn't it?"

Satoru didn't wait to hear the answer. He walked past the flashing lights, steam rising off his armor like smoke from a battlefield.

His leg trembled. The pain in his ribs throbbed. But he got back on the bike.

It took him three tries to swing his leg over.

---

Later that night, he stopped at a rusted faucet behind an abandoned market. Washed soot off his gloves. Peeled off his cracked goggles and wiped the condensation from inside the lens.

In the faint glow of the market's broken sign, his reflection looked like a ghost. Bruised under the eyes. Drenched. Still standing.

A child's drawing had been left on the wall beside the faucet—crayon scribbles of a figure on a bicycle with stars behind him. No name. No reward.

Just the image of a man who wouldn't fall.