Mumen Rider in MHA

Three days had passed since the fire that almost took his life—and saved two others.

Satoru walked down the quiet streets of his neighborhood, ribs tightly wrapped beneath a second-hand hoodie. The early morning chill bit into his hands. His steps were slow, stiff. Every bruise complained, every bandage itched. But he couldn't stand to stay inside anymore. The walls of his bedroom felt like they were pressing inward, stifling him.

He hadn't brought his helmet. No gloves. No jacket. Just a baseball cap pulled low, a scarf Keiko had left on the kitchen chair, and his aching legs.

People noticed.

Whispers floated across the breeze as he passed shops and bus stops.

"Isn't that him? The kid in the video?"

"No way... seriously? That tiny guy?"

"He went into the fire alone. Pulled out a child. And some old man too."

"Quirkless, right? Crazy."

Some stares lingered, others avoided him altogether.

Outside the corner store, the old lady who sold steamed buns stepped out and waved him over. Satoru hesitated.

"You," she said, squinting. "You're the Helmet Boy, aren't you?"

He swallowed. "I... I don't—"

She thrust a cup of hot tea into his hands.

"You're reckless," she said kindly. "But thank you. We needed a little hope."

He stared down at the steam curling upward.

"I'm not—" He stopped. Then whispered, "Thank you."

Not every response was kind.

A man leaning on a nearby fence scoffed as Satoru walked past. "Still pretending you're a hero? Wake up, kid. You'll end up in a casket."

Satoru said nothing. The sting still found its way beneath his skin.

He ended up at the park, stopping at the charred alley where the fire had once raged. The tape was still there. The air still held the scent of smoke.

He stood there, unmoving.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

He turned.

Kana Fujimura stood at a distance, her arms crossed, wearing that same condescending frown. She stared at him—long and unreadable.

Their eyes met. She said nothing. Just sneered.

Then turned around and walked off.

---

The next morning at school, things were different.

Satoru walked into class. The moment he stepped through the door, a wave of quiet rippled through the room. Students paused mid-conversation. Eyes flicked toward him, then away. Some were wide with recognition. Others narrowed with judgment.

He ignored them. Took his seat.

The teacher glanced at him during roll call, eyes lingering just a second too long before moving on.

No one said anything aloud.

But the whispers were there.

"That's the guy in the video."

"He got burned saving people? No way."

"Why would he do something so dumb? He doesn't even have a quirk."

He sat through it all, still and quiet.

---

Lunchtime came. Satoru headed to his usual spot beneath the tree in the courtyard. He sat alone, unwrapping his lunch mechanically, appetite dulled.

A few benches away, a familiar girl sat with her sketchbook in her lap.

Miyako.

She peeked at him over the top of her sketchpad, then quickly dropped her gaze, cheeks tinted pink.

Satoru blinked.

She looked up again, mustered a tiny, shy smile.

He hesitated... then smiled back.

No words exchanged.

But it was something.

He didn't feel like a hero.

But for the first time since the fire, he didn't feel alone either.

He pulled the scarf closer around his neck, took another bite of his lunch, and looked toward the sky.

He still had the gloves. And he still had roads to ride.