Mumen Rider in MHA

The sirens started faintly, barely more than a whisper against the city's usual hum.

Satoru had just finished restocking a public bike rack he used to hide his own gear when he caught the smell—bitter, acrid, unmistakable. Smoke.

He followed it instinctively, weaving through dim alleys and side roads until he found the source.

A narrow apartment building was on fire.

The flames had already claimed the first two floors. Fire licked the cracked concrete exterior like a hungry tongue. Sparks burst from windows, and the upper stories moaned with the weight of heat and pressure.

Crowds had gathered—mothers clutching children, vendors staring slack-jawed. Police tape cordoned off the block, but the heroes hadn't arrived yet.

"Someone's still in there!" a woman screamed. "A kid and an old man—they haven't come out!"

Satoru stared at the blaze. His breath caught.

No one moved.

The officers on site were keeping people back. Fire trucks were minutes out.

Minutes were too long.

Satoru dropped his bike and ran.

"Hey! You—what are you doing?!" a policeman shouted.

But Satoru was already past the tape, already through the front entrance.

---

Inside, the world was an oven.

The heat was suffocating. He wrapped his scarf around his mouth and nose, ducking low as smoke stung his eyes. He moved by memory—counting steps, scanning shadows.

Creaks and groans echoed through the narrow halls.

On the second floor, a beam had collapsed, flames crawling up its length. Satoru hurdled over it clumsily, coughing.

He found them huddled in a corner room—the old man curled protectively around a crying boy.

"Please," the man rasped. "Help him."

"I've got both of you," Satoru said, voice hoarse.

He pulled the boy into his arms and hauled the old man to his feet.

The exit was a maze of fire and collapse.

A burst of flame caught his sleeve. He slapped it out with trembling hands.

He kicked through a weakened door and burst onto the stairwell.

The ceiling cracked.

A window exploded outward, raining glass behind them.

He felt the child's fingers digging into his shoulder. The old man stumbled beside him, breath wheezing.

One step.

Then another.

The building trembled. Something heavy fell upstairs.

"Just a little further!" Satoru shouted.

And then—air. Real air. Night air.

They tumbled out onto the street as the crowd surged forward.

The woman from earlier screamed in relief, running to her son.

The old man collapsed onto his knees.

Satoru lay on his back, panting, coughing up smoke. His jacket was scorched. His left arm wouldn't move properly.

The fire engines arrived then—belated, but blaring. Pro heroes dove from their trucks, barking orders. Cameras flashed.

A bystander had filmed the entire rescue.

---

"He just ran in," someone said, dazed.

"Did you see the helmet?"

"He's not even a real hero…"

"But he saved them."

"Who was that?"