Mumen Rider in MHA

Keiko waited at the station two stops outside Kamino. The platform was mostly empty, save for a vending machine that rattled every few minutes and a sparrow pecking at crumbs near the bench.

She didn't wear her usual patrol gear today—just a dark hoodie and jeans, a cap pulled low over her face. Her bag sat beside her, filled with small things she thought might help but now felt foolish for bringing. A spare phone charger. A can of warm soup. Three sweet bean buns in wax paper.

And him.

She waited for Satoru Kojima like she had so many times before—quietly, without expectation, but with her chest aching anyway.

---

He arrived late, rolling in on that same clunky old bicycle, now painted black and green with reinforced wheels and a light that blinked steadily. His armor was dented along one shin, the shoulder straps scuffed. His helmet—sleek and familiar now—hid most of his face, but she could tell from the slouch in his posture that he was exhausted.

She stood when he pulled up.

"You're late," she said.

"Didn't think you'd wait," he replied.

"You're an idiot," she muttered.

"Probably."

There was no hug. There rarely was. But he parked the bike carefully and walked beside her toward the empty streets near the old harbor.

---

They ended up at a convenience store she used to visit with him after patrols. The awning still dripped with condensation. The bench out front was cracked along one side. They sat anyway.

Keiko handed him the paper bag without comment.

He opened it, peered in.

"Sweet bean buns?" he asked.

"You like them."

"I don't. Not really."

"Yeah. But you keep eating them. Figured you just made peace with that by now."

He smiled faintly and pulled one out. Peeled the wrapper off with slow, almost tired hands.

"Thanks."

She watched him take a bite, chewing slower than usual. The silence settled like fog around them. Comfortable. But not peaceful.

Keiko kicked her heel lightly against the cracked concrete.

"You've got that face again," she said quietly.

"What face?"

"That face you wear when you're pretending you're not tired. When you want to say everything's fine, but your body's already packing its bags."

He didn't answer at first. Just stared across the road at an old streetlamp that buzzed softly with static.

"I'm still standing," he said finally. "Still moving."

"That's not what I asked."

He finished the bun and wiped his hands on a napkin from the bag.

"I'm not trying to leave. I just… don't know how to stay."

Keiko looked at him. Really looked.

His eyes were darker now. Not lifeless—but dulled by weight. The kind of weight you get from carrying too many things that were never yours in the first place.

She reached into the bag and pulled out another bun. Held it out wordlessly.

He didn't take it.

"Satoru…"

He glanced at her.

"I don't need you to be okay all the time," she said. "I just need you to stop pretending it doesn't hurt."

"It's easier this way."

"For who?"

That shut him up.

Keiko sighed and leaned back against the wall behind them. The chill of the concrete bled through her sweatshirt.

"When we were kids, you were always the one who got scraped knees. Always fell off the bike. But you'd get up, grin like it didn't matter, and race me anyway."

"I remember."

"You still do that. You get up. You smile. You pretend."

She paused.

"But the bruises are deeper now. And I think maybe you stopped looking back to see if anyone's still following you."

Satoru's hands were clenched now, resting on his knees. He looked down at them. The gauntlets creaked as his fingers curled tighter.

"I don't know how else to be," he admitted. "If I stop moving, even for a second, I feel like I'll break. So I keep going."

"Then break," she said softly. "Just once. Here. With me."

He didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Keiko shifted closer. She didn't touch him—didn't press. Just sat beside him until the silence felt like breathing again.

"You think this is your last ride?" she asked.

"No," he said, too fast.

Then slower: "I don't know."

"You've got that look. Like something's shifting under your feet, and you're just waiting to fall through."

He looked at her. The visor was half-lifted, enough that she could see his mouth—tight, unsmiling.

"Would it hurt less if I told you I'm not scared?"

"It'd hurt more," she said.

And that made him smile.

A small, broken, crooked thing.

But real.

"Then no lies," he whispered. "I'm terrified."

"Good."

She reached over, finally, and took his hand. The gloves were cold. Hers were warm.

"Then you're still human. And still mine. At least for now."

---

They stayed like that until a passing train broke the silence with a low mechanical rumble.

Satoru stood first. Picked up his helmet. Pulled the visor down slowly.

"Thank you for coming."

"Don't make me regret it," she said, grabbing her bag.

She stepped away, then turned back. Held something out.

"You left this," she said. A flower pin. It used to be on his old hoodie.

He blinked.

"Didn't think you kept it."

"You don't notice the things I do."

---

As she disappeared onto the train, Satoru sat back down on the bench, holding the pin in one hand and the uneaten bun in the other. The sky above Kamino turned a shade darker—but for a moment, he just watched the clouds.

Still.

Breathing.

Present.