Mumen Rider in MHA

The rain tapped gently against the window of Room 307. The hospital air smelled faintly of antiseptic and wilted carnations. Satoru lay motionless under crisp white sheets, his arm bandaged and his ribs wrapped tight. An IV dripped beside him with slow, indifferent patience.

Outside the walls, the world kept spinning. And talking.

They didn't say his name. Not directly. But they said plenty.

"You know that guy with the bike helmet? The one from Minato Base?"

"They say he never turns down a patrol shift."

"I heard he broke his arm last week catching a thief."

"It's Satoru, right? From the flower shop?"

"I mean, who else rides around like that?"

No one ever said it out loud. No one asked him. And Satoru never acknowledged it. But the truth had taken root.

His neighborhood knew.

His classmates knew.

His old teacher at the convenience store always set aside extra bread near closing hours.

Even the grocery clerk—who used to sneer at him for bringing bruised coins—now nodded with a quiet, uncertain respect.

Not praise. Not yet. But something gentler than mockery.

---

At school, Miyako overheard them again.

"The Helmet Guy?" a boy whispered near the lockers. "He works support. Basically just holds up caution tape. Big deal."

His friend snorted. "Still got his ribs broken last month. Must be a masochist."

She didn't say anything then. But she bit the inside of her cheek and held her bag tighter.

That night, she passed by the flower shop. It was closed. The metal shutter halfway down, a hand-painted sign taped to the front: Temporarily Closed.

She stood there for a long moment, under the awning, watching raindrops slide down the sign. Then she reached into her pocket.

A small folded note. Crinkled at the edges. Carefully written.

_"I hope you're okay, wherever you are. Your flowers made people smile. I think you'd be good at being a hero, even if they don't clap."

—M

She tucked it into the mailbox slot and ran home before she could change her mind.

---

Back at the hospital, Satoru stirred faintly in bed.

Sayaka walked past the door during her rounds, paused, then stepped inside.

She checked his chart, adjusted his IV.

Then noticed the folded paper on the nightstand. Someone must've dropped it off during visiting hours.

She didn't read it.

But she smiled a little.

Then turned off the overhead light.

The room dimmed. The rain kept falling.

And outside, the rumors—good or bad—kept living on.

Because rumors, like legends, don't die.

They just wait for the next chapter to prove themselves true.