Mumen Rider in MHA

The Minato Base agency office was quiet on Sunday mornings.

Satoru sat at his usual desk—modest, tucked in the corner beside a dusty bulletin board. His ribs still ached, the healing burn under his shirt pulling when he moved too fast. But he didn't complain. Didn't even wince.

The moment you start showing pain, people treat you like glass.

He was sketching again. A new glove design—thicker padding over the knuckles, maybe something shock-absorbent. He was bad at technical drawing, but it helped focus his thoughts.

Then the bell over the front door jingled.

Ren, behind the counter, glanced up. "We're closed, sorry—"

"I-it's okay. I'm not… I just wanted to see him."

Satoru turned.

A young boy stood in the doorway, no older than seven. Thin arms, oversized hoodie, cheeks a little red from the wind. Beside him, a woman stepped forward—mid-thirties, tired eyes, grateful smile.

Ren blinked. "You're…"

The woman nodded. "From the alley fire. My son. He wouldn't stop asking to thank the man who saved us."

Satoru stood, a little unsure what to say.

The boy walked up, a little nervous but determined. He held something behind his back.

Then he pulled it out—a small piece of folded construction paper, decorated with shaky crayon lines and bright red letters:

> "THANK YOU, HELMET HERO!!"

"YOU SAVED ME!!!"

There was a crooked drawing of Satoru, big helmet and all, standing in front of a burning building. His arms were tiny. The smile was huge.

Satoru stared at it.

The boy looked up at him, eyes wide. "You're my favorite hero."

Satoru opened his mouth.

No words came.

So he crouched down and took the card gently in both hands. His gloves creaked slightly. His voice came out softer than he expected.

"Thank you," he whispered. "This means… a lot."

The boy beamed.

"Can I… hug you?"

Satoru hesitated.

Then nodded.

The hug lasted three seconds.

It left him more shaken than any villain attack.

---

After they left, Ren sat beside him, uncharacteristically quiet.

"You okay, bike boy?"

He nodded slowly, still staring at the card. His fingers trembled slightly.

"That's the first time anyone's said that," he said.

"Said what?"

"My favorite hero."

Ren glanced away, tapping a pen against the desk.

"You deserve to hear it more."

Satoru didn't reply. He just smiled faintly.

---

That evening, Miyako stood at the corner store, looking for instant soup. She was alone, as usual—her parents worked late.

As she scanned the shelves, her phone buzzed. She pulled it out and saw a message in the class group chat.

"Helmet Guy saved a kid from a fire?! For real?"

Below was the image of the thank you card—someone had snapped a photo of it from the Minato Base bulletin board. It had made its way online again.

> "This guy's getting famous…"

"He's still just some nobody on a bike lmao"

"Wish I had half that courage."

Miyako stared at the drawing.

She knew that helmet. She knew those gloves.

Her thoughts drifted to Satoru—quiet, tired-looking Satoru from school. Always bruised. Always walking stiffly like he was hiding pain.

She thought of him bandaging his scraped hand after a fall outside school. Of how he didn't talk much, but always listened.

Her heart beat a little faster.

She put the soup back and walked home without buying anything.

That night, she opened her sketchbook. Inside were little cartoon doodles. A few of Satoru. One of a boy with a bike helmet and a tattered cape, surrounded by fire.

She picked up her pencil.

For the first time, she didn't draw him crying.

She drew him standing.

---

Across town, Kana sat on a rooftop ledge, scrolling through her phone. The video from the alley fire. The card. The smiles.

She scoffed.

"What a joke," she muttered.

But the words didn't bite the way they used to.

She leaned back, head against the wall, staring up at the clouds.

"They're treating him like a hero."

She clenched her jaw.

"Even if he's just some loser."

Her voice faltered.

"…Why does that piss me off so much?"

She didn't know the answer.

But her fingers hovered over her sketchbook.

Without meaning to, she opened it.

And began sketching something she never thought she would.

A helmet. A bike. A storm in the background.

And someone still standing in the rain.