Mumen Rider in MHA

The wind was cold against his neck as Satoru pedaled hard down the narrow side street, the moon casting long shadows ahead of him. It was his third night out this week, and though his body still ached from the last fall—an elbow scraped raw and ribs that protested every breath—he didn't slow down. Not until he heard the scream.

He skidded to a halt, shoes screeching against the pavement. A woman at a nearby food stall was shouting. A figure—a man in a ragged coat with smoke trailing from his fingertips—was grabbing for the vendor's cash box.

"Stop right there!" Satoru yelled.

The man turned, surprised. "Who the hell—"

Satoru dropped his bike and rushed forward. He had no plan—just forward motion and instinct. He ducked under a swipe of smoky claws and tackled the man's waist. They fell hard onto the pavement.

Pain flared in Satoru's ribs, but he didn't let go. He held on like a vice, even as the man cursed and kicked.

"Let go, freak!" the villain snarled.

Satoru clenched his teeth. "Not until someone better gets here."

There were footsteps. A pro hero—Maji-Flare, a local fire-user from Minato Base—appeared and quickly neutralized the man with a spray of flame-retardant foam.

"Hey! Kid! You alright?"

Satoru let go only when Maji-Flare pulled the villain away. He collapsed backward, breath ragged.

"I'm fine," he managed.

The vendor rushed to him. "You—are you Helmet Guy?"

Satoru nodded faintly, sitting up. His jacket was torn at the elbow, and blood soaked through.

"You're bleeding," Maji-Flare said, kneeling beside him.

"I'll walk it off," Satoru said. "Got work tomorrow."

The hero looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled, a little crookedly.

"You're reckless. But maybe… real heroes are too."

Satoru didn't respond, but something in his chest felt warmer than the pain. He looked down at his scraped palms and torn gloves.

And he smiled.

---

Later that night, he sat on the curb outside a closed convenience store, gently bandaging his arm with supplies from a vending machine first-aid kit. It wasn't the first time he'd patched himself up in the dark, and it probably wouldn't be the last.

He scrolled his phone with one hand, checking the local forums. There was already a short clip circulating—blurry footage of his tackle, a shaky caption: "Helmet Guy strikes again!"

The comments were a mix of admiration and skepticism.

> "This guy again? He's insane." "He's got heart, I'll give him that." "Why isn't anyone helping him? He's literally bleeding."

Satoru sighed. It wasn't about recognition. But seeing that someone cared—even anonymously—mattered more than he wanted to admit.

His phone buzzed. A text from Keiko.

> [Keiko]: Heard you were out again. Don't make me arrest you myself.

He smiled faintly and typed back with one thumb.

> [Satoru]: You'd have to catch me first.

He tucked the phone away and leaned back against the wall. The city stretched around him, full of chaos and light. Somewhere out there, people were still moving, still hurting, still hoping.

And he was still here. Not strong. Not fast. But present.

He whispered to himself: "I'm not a real hero. Not yet. But I'm not giving up."

The stars were faint behind the city glow, but he kept looking up.

And when he finally got back on his bike, the pain in his ribs had dulled. What stayed was the quiet thrum in his chest—the certainty that tomorrow, he'd ride again.