Mumen Rider in MHA

The hospital halls were half-lit. Pale fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting cold rectangles of light across the linoleum floors. Somewhere down the corridor, a nurse hummed while changing IV bags. A cart squeaked faintly as it was wheeled out of sight.

Satoru stood at the end of the hall, still in armor, helmet tucked beneath one arm, breath fogging faintly from the night air still clinging to him.

He hadn't texted ahead. Didn't want anyone waiting.

Not tonight.

The room number hadn't changed.

He knocked gently—twice—and waited.

"Come in," came her voice, soft but steady.

---

His mother sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, her frame thinner than he remembered, eyes shadowed but alert. A small bouquet of hospital-daisies sat beside her water pitcher—half-wilted, but holding on.

She smiled when she saw him.

"You're late."

"Ran into traffic," Satoru said, pulling up a chair. "Villains love to block intersections."

She looked him over, amused. "You always dress like that now?"

He glanced down at the armor, scratched from recent patrols. "People expect it."

"I liked the hoodie," she murmured. "You looked less… burdened."

Satoru chuckled softly. "Didn't have much armor back then."

She reached forward—slow, with effort—and touched his gauntlet with trembling fingers. "You still don't."

That quieted him.

---

They talked for a while. About nothing and everything.

About Keiko visiting. About how the hospital food hadn't killed her yet. About how the flowers in her room refused to bloom properly.

Satoru offered to bring new ones. She rolled her eyes.

Then—during a lull—she reached for his hand. Her grip was papery, but warm.

"You've been pushing yourself again," she said.

"I'm fine."

"You're limping."

He didn't answer.

A silence settled. Not uncomfortable. Just... full.

She watched him, brow furrowing faintly. "Something's coming, isn't it?"

Satoru looked away.

"I don't know what," he admitted. "But yeah. Feels like the ground's shifting under me."

"You're afraid."

"…A little."

Her fingers squeezed his hand—just barely.

"Good," she whispered. "Fear means your heart's still working."

He exhaled, quietly.

---

"I saw your interview," she said after a while. "The one they tried to cut from the news feed. The silly one. Where you said you're not here to win."

He chuckled. "Still think it was a dumb thing to say."

"I think it was honest."

A pause.

"Are you happy, Satoru?"

He blinked at the question.

Then looked at her.

"Not always," he said. "But I think I'm doing what I was meant to."

She nodded. "That's more than most people get."

---

Visiting hours were long over. No one came to kick him out.

He stayed until she began to drift off, hand still wrapped in his.

Before he left, he tucked the blanket up to her shoulders.

Paused.

And whispered, "I'll bring you those better flowers next time. I promise."

She mumbled something in her sleep. He didn't catch it.

But she was smiling.

---

As he stepped into the hallway again, he glanced back once—just once—through the window.

The light above her bed glowed soft and golden.

And Satoru Kojima walked away, not knowing this was the last time he would ever see her.