Mumen Rider in MHA

The hospital lights hummed softly in the sterile silence, casting faint shadows on the tiled floor. Satoru lay in bed, half-propped up by a pile of stiff pillows. His arm was wrapped tight in bandages, and dull pain throbbed in his ribs every time he breathed too deeply.

He hated hospitals. Not because of the smell or the needles—but because he had to lie still.

It was late evening, maybe 9 or 10 p.m. The sky outside his window was a flat, dark blue, and the city's lights blurred against the glass. The room was quiet, save for the steady beep of the monitor and the whisper of his own thoughts.

A knock came. Not sharp or impatient—just a soft rapping.

"Come in," he said, voice hoarse.

The door opened, and Nurse Sayaka Nakamura stepped inside. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, her scrubs dark navy. She carried a fresh towel and a clipboard. No smile. But no scowl either.

"Still alive, Bicycle Boy?"

Satoru offered a crooked grin. "Hanging in there. You bring me more painkillers or more lectures?"

She walked over, setting the towel on the bedside table. "Neither. Just checking vitals. And making sure you haven't snuck out through the window."

"I thought about it," he admitted, chuckling softly—and wincing right after. "Decided to be good. For once."

She didn't laugh, but something softened in her expression. She placed a thermometer under his tongue and checked the IV line with quick, practiced hands.

"You've been through worse, haven't you?" she asked, not looking at him.

"Yeah. But not... stacked on top of each other like this."

She clicked her pen and scribbled a note. "You push too hard. You don't rest. You act like pain is a badge of honor."

"It's not that. I just can't stop. Not yet."

She turned to face him. Her gaze was unreadable, but heavy. "Why?"

He looked down at his hands—scraped, raw, and healing. The gloves Aizawa gave him sat folded on the bedside table.

"Because people need someone to move. Even when they can't. Even when it's dumb. Even when it hurts."

Sayaka didn't reply right away. She pulled up a chair, sat beside the bed, and crossed one leg over the other.

"I see a lot of kids like you. Idealistic. Determined. Reckless. Most of them burn out before their twenties. Some don't even make it to graduation."

"I know."

"So what makes you different?"

He thought about Miyako's note. About Keiko holding his hand. About Kana silently watching. About that boy he pulled from the flames who whispered, "You're my hero."

"I don't think I am different," he said. "I just keep standing back up. That's all I can do."

Sayaka stared at him for a moment, then stood. She returned to the counter, wet the towel, and folded it neatly beside him.

"Well, keep standing then," she said. "But don't forget—you're still just a human. Even legends bleed."

She walked to the door, hesitated, then looked back over her shoulder.

"Try to sleep. I'll check in tomorrow."

The door clicked shut.

Satoru leaned back against the pillow, the weight of her words lingering in the room.

He didn't feel like a legend. Or a hero. He just felt tired.

But that wasn't going to stop him.

Not yet.