Mumen Rider in MHA

Midnight – Kamino Side Streets

The sky over Kamino was thick with smog. No stars tonight—just the dull glow of city lights bouncing off low clouds. Rain had come and gone hours earlier, leaving the asphalt slick and glistening like black glass.

Satoru's tires whispered over wet pavement.

No sirens. No screaming. Just the steady hum of his bike chain and the soft creak of armor with every turn of the pedal. The city was holding its breath.

It made him uneasy.

His body ached from days of nonstop patrol. Bruises along his ribs. A cut on his chin from debris. A dull pull in his leg where he'd caught a falling girl during a minor quake the day before.

He didn't care. This stretch of street was quiet. That mattered.

Then—

"Oi! Helmet!"

Satoru slowed instinctively, one boot skidding slightly.

From a bus stop down the lane, a figure stumbled forward. Middle-aged, reeking of liquor and rain, coat slung over one shoulder and a plastic bag of groceries hanging from the other.

"...You're him, right?" the man said. "The one on the TV. The Helmet Hero."

Satoru straightened. He didn't reply.

The man laughed, a hoarse, broken sound. "You don't talk much, huh? Thought maybe you were a poser."

He stepped closer, gaze half-glazed but not unkind. "You saved my brother once. Couple months ago. Mugging near Shin-Fukuro alley."

Satoru blinked.

"I remember that," he said quietly. "He had a broken wrist."

The man nodded. "Yeah. That idiot still won't shut up about you. Keeps calling you 'the guy who didn't stop moving.' I thought he was exaggerating. But… look at you."

He paused. Then dug into his coat.

Satoru tensed—but only for a second.

The man pulled out a crushed bouquet of daisies. A little wilted. Water-stained. Wrapped in newspaper.

"Got these for my ma," he muttered. "But... she ain't around anymore."

He stepped forward.

And handed them to Satoru.

"You ride like you've got the whole world on your back," he said. "So maybe take these. For the next hospital room. Or someone else who needs reminding."

Satoru took them, wordless.

Then nodded.

"Thanks."

The man just grinned. "Don't die, Helmet. The city's got too many ghosts already."

---

He rode again.

The bouquet tucked between the straps of his chest harness, bobbing gently with every turn.

When he finally made it back to Minato Base, the night sky was starting to lighten at the edges—pale pink bleeding into gray.

He didn't head straight in. Instead, he stood outside the base garage, watching the city's rooftops.

His breath steamed in the cold.

His legs ached.

The flowers were still there, tucked against his chest like armor.

He had no speeches.

No answers.

No legacy.

But he was here.

Still standing.

Still pedaling.