Mumen Rider in MHA

Rain misted the morning streets as Satoru locked his bike to the side rail near a small corner café. His gloves were still damp from the night before, and his knee ached from yesterday's patrol, where he'd slipped chasing down a jaywalker.

He tugged his hood tighter and stepped into the Minato Base agency's narrow lobby. Hikasa Ren was already there, sipping coffee like it was her life source.

"You're late," she said, not looking up from her phone.

Satoru checked the clock. "By two minutes."

She grunted. "You'll die in those two minutes someday."

"Encouraging."

She handed him a new assignment slip. "You're tagging along with Officer Nara again. Routine foot patrol in the shopping arcade. And no heroics. She's still annoyed you didn't wait for her signal yesterday."

"I waved."

"While sprinting past her into traffic."

Satoru shrugged. "Felt like the right move."

Ren gave him a dry stare. "It wasn't."

He nodded, accepting it, tugging on his gloves. The right palm was patched again with surgical tape. He flexed his fingers once, twice, then tightened the strap on his helmet.

"Gloves on. Head down," he muttered. "Let's go."

---

The shopping arcade was bustling despite the gray weather.

Satoru trailed behind Officer Nara as instructed, occasionally offering directions or helping someone pick up dropped groceries. People were starting to recognize him now—especially kids.

He heard murmurs.

"Helmet guy!"

"Mom, that's him, right?"

"He's smaller than I thought…"

It was surreal. Two months ago, no one looked at him unless it was to shove him into a locker.

Now people smiled. Sometimes.

Not always.

As they walked past a group of high schoolers loitering outside a gaming shop, Satoru heard laughter. Then came the voice:

"Oh, look. It's the cosplay hero."

He turned just slightly.

A tall boy in a cracked faux-leather jacket sneered at him. "Where's your sidekick, delivery scooter?"

His friends laughed. One made a fake salute.

Satoru said nothing.

Officer Nara gave the boys a look. "Move along."

They did. Eventually.

Nara glanced at him. "Don't let idiots live in your head."

"I don't," Satoru said, smiling faintly. "They can't afford rent."

She smirked. "You're not as fragile as you look."

"Good. I'm tired of being fragile."

---

Near the end of their shift, they passed a small bakery where an elderly woman tripped stepping off the curb.

Satoru lunged forward before Nara could react, catching her arm and steadying her.

"You okay, ma'am?"

She blinked up at him through watery glasses. "I'm fine, dear. Thank you. You're the one from the fire video, aren't you?"

"Just lucky timing," he said softly.

She patted his hand. "Still. You stood up. Not many do."

As they helped her to a bench, a voice cut through the air:

"Tch. Anyone can stand up if they're too dumb to fall over."

Kana Fujimura leaned against a vending machine nearby, arms crossed, a lollipop stick poking from her mouth.

Satoru looked over, unsurprised.

"Kana."

"Still playing pretend, huh?" she said, tone sharp.

"I'm not pretending."

"You're still quirkless."

"I know."

She pushed off the wall and walked toward him, smirking. "You think putting on a helmet and running around makes you important? People only like you because you nearly burned to death. That's pity, not praise."

Satoru didn't flinch. "Maybe. But even pity is better than apathy."

Kana frowned.

Satoru continued, voice steady. "You have a strong quirk. You don't have to do anything, Kana. You can sit back and laugh. That's your choice. Just like this is mine."

She narrowed her eyes. "You think this is noble? You think any of this matters?"

"No," he said quietly. "But the people I help do."

Her smirk faltered for just a second.

Officer Nara stepped beside him. "Let's move, kid. We've got one more stop."

Kana watched them go. She didn't call after him. But her fingers clenched around the candy stick.

She'd meant to mock him.

So why did she feel like she lost something?

---

That night, Satoru limped into his room and collapsed on his futon. His uniform vest was damp, the scent of rain and city dust clinging to the fabric.

He pulled out his notebook and wrote:

> Another day. Another dent in the armor. But she saw me. Even if she hated it. Still standing. Still pedaling.

He closed the notebook and looked toward the corner, where his cracked helmet rested quietly on a hook.

It wasn't shiny. It wasn't impressive.

But it was his.

And as long as he could wear it, he'd keep showing up.