Mumen Rider in MHA

Rain pooled in the gutters of Kamigawa's quieter district as Satoru pedaled his bicycle, the front light flickering with every bump. His breath misted in the cold air, and his body ached more than usual. Finals were looming, and he'd pulled an all-nighter studying—yet here he was, helmet on, jacket zipped up, watching the streets while the city slept.

A scream cut through the stillness.

Satoru braked hard. It came from the alleyway behind the convenience store.

He ditched his bike and ran.

Two thugs had cornered a middle-aged couple. One's palm glowed with unstable lightning, buzzing and cracking like an exposed wire. The other's shadow writhed beneath his feet, tendrils lashing out and curling up the brick walls.

The couple looked frozen in terror.

"Leave them alone!" Satoru shouted, voice hoarse but firm.

The thugs turned. The electric one sneered. "You serious, kid?"

Satoru stepped forward anyway, fists clenched, goggles catching the streetlight. "Let them go."

"You a hero or just stupid?"

"Does it matter?"

The electric quirk user raised his hand—and fired.

Satoru dove to the side, the bolt barely missing his leg. He charged forward before his nerves could scream. He slammed his shoulder into the man's gut, driving him back.

The couple used the moment to run.

But the shadow-user moved faster. A tendril snatched Satoru by the ankle, yanking him down onto the pavement with a sickening crack.

The shadow coiled tighter.

Satoru gritted his teeth, dragging himself up just enough to twist and kick—hard—at the thug's shin. The shadow flickered. Satoru broke loose.

Then the electricity returned—fast and blinding.

A blinding arc of current struck his side.

Pain exploded through his body.

Everything went black.

The last thing he heard was the woman screaming his name.

---

White ceiling tiles. A dull beep. Sharp antiseptic air.

Satoru groaned softly as he opened his eyes. Pain flared instantly along his ribs. His shoulder was wrapped, and his skin itched with the sting of burns beneath bandages. He blinked against the fluorescent light, disoriented.

"You've got a death wish, you know that?"

He turned his head—too fast—and hissed in pain.

Sayaka stood beside the bed, arms crossed over her hoodie, her expression unreadable as always. Her clipboard was tucked under one arm, though she hadn't looked at it once.

"Concussion. Bruised ribs. Electrical burns. Your left shoulder's cracked. And don't even get me started on your blood pressure." She tilted her head, voice dry. "Which is impressively bad, by the way. You really went all-in tonight."

He tried to speak. It came out as a croak. "The couple—"

"Fine. Scared half to death, but they're safe." She poured water into a cup and held it out to him.

He hesitated.

"Drink. Slowly. Unless you want to choke and make me start all over again."

He obeyed.

Once he finished, she sat down on the stool, silent for a few seconds, scribbling a note on the clipboard with a tired sigh.

"You're not a pro."

"I know."

"You're not licensed."

"I know."

"And you're not invincible."

That one hit harder than it should have. He looked away.

Sayaka didn't soften. "If you die, that's it. No second round. No dramatic music. Just your mom crying, and your sister burying your bloodstained uniform."

He flinched.

For a while, there was only the beep of the monitors.

Then, quieter—"You did good," she said, not looking at him. "Stupid, reckless, emotional—but good."

Satoru blinked.

Sayaka stood and adjusted his IV. "Keiko's outside. She hasn't sat down once."

"...She's mad, isn't she."

"She's scared," Sayaka replied, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve.

She turned to go, then paused at the door.

"Don't make this a habit. You're not saving the world on your own."

The door clicked shut behind her.

Satoru exhaled, slowly. Every breath hurt, but his heart felt steadier.

Another life saved.

Maybe—just maybe—it was worth it.

He closed his eyes.

And slept.