Mumen Rider in MHA

The hospital room was quiet again, lit by the late afternoon sun slanting through the blinds. Machines beeped softly. Satoru lay on the bed, wrapped in gauze and faded exhaustion. A small vase of flowers—left behind by a nurse—sat forgotten on the windowsill.

Keiko stood at the foot of the bed, her uniform jacket slung over one arm. Her eyes scanned her brother's bandaged torso, the bruises peeking out from beneath the edges. His face was still, lips slightly parted in sleep. He looked younger like this. Like a child again.

She hadn't spoken since entering the room.

Instead, she'd set her bag down, taken off her hat, and pulled the chair closer to his bedside. Now she sat with her hands clenched between her knees, watching his chest rise and fall.

She didn't want to be angry. Not this time.

But she was afraid.

Afraid because each time it happened, the injuries got worse.

And this time, when she received the hospital call, her heart had dropped in her chest like a stone.

The silence stretched.

Finally, Satoru stirred. His lashes fluttered. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes.

"Kei," he murmured, voice gravelly. "You came."

She nodded once.

He blinked, then offered a tired smile. "Sorry. I missed dinner."

She exhaled. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.

"Don't make jokes right now," she said quietly. "I'm trying really hard not to hit you."

He winced—not at the threat, but the truth behind it.

Keiko leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. "Why do you keep doing this to me?"

Satoru looked away, toward the window. The skyline glowed gold, the edge of the city caught in the sunset.

"I just wanted to help."

"You always want to help. But you never think about what that help costs."

Silence again.

Then, softer: "What if one day you don't get back up, Satoru? What then? What am I supposed to do?"

He turned his head, slowly. Their eyes met.

"Then I guess you'd have to yell at my grave."

"Don't joke."

"I'm not," he said. "I think about it, y'know. That maybe next time I won't walk away. But then I think about the people who won't walk away if I don't do something."

Keiko let the words hang.

She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. "You were always the softest kid. Always crying. Always hiding behind me."

Satoru smiled faintly. "Still kind of am."

"No. Not anymore," she said. "Somewhere along the line, you became brave. Not smart, not careful, but brave."

She stood up slowly and reached into her jacket.

From the inner pocket, she pulled out a small package—a pair of brand-new fingerless gloves.

"Your old ones are toast," she said, placing them gently on the table beside the bed.

Satoru looked at them, then back at her.

"Thanks," he whispered.

Keiko leaned down, placed a kiss on his forehead.

"Just come home in one piece next time, okay? That's all I ask."

He nodded, throat tight.

And for a moment, they stayed like that: older sister and foolish little brother, both a little broken, both trying to protect each other the only way they knew how.

With love, and silence, and stubborn, unspoken hope.