Mumen Rider in MHA

The alley stank of gasoline and blood.

Minato Base had called in a joint operation—several licensed pros and support agents tasked with cornering a mid-level villain gang hiding in the industrial zone. It was meant to be a clean sweep. Controlled. Safe.

It wasn't.

Satoru Kojima stood near the perimeter, goggles glinting faintly beneath his helmet, armored uniform already scuffed from debris. He wasn't meant to engage. Just observe. Support.

But then the building exploded.

Screams shattered through the comms. The smoke hadn't cleared before he was moving—breaking formation, ignoring protocol.

"Three civilians in there!" someone shouted. "They weren't supposed to be—"

Satoru didn't wait for permission. He kicked down the emergency door and bolted inside.

---

Heat and soot clawed at his lungs. Shattered glass crunched beneath his boots. He moved like instinct, like memory—past twisted steel and burning crates.

He found them near the stairwell: a mother, a father, a boy no older than Kana. The kid was crying, nose bloodied.

"Come on," Satoru said, breath ragged. "I'll get you out."

The father hesitated. "They said—support units aren't allowed—"

"Don't care." Satoru grabbed the kid, hoisted him over his shoulder. "Follow me or don't. But I'm not leaving him."

They followed.

Twice he stumbled, once over fallen rubble, once from the shockwave of another nearby detonation. But he didn't stop.

He never stopped.

When they burst out of the smoke and into the arms of medics, the crowd behind the barricades gasped. Cameras clicked. One reporter shouted, "Who is that?"

Someone answered, half-smirking: "That's Mumen Rider. Or whatever he calls himself."

---

Inside the ops tent, silence choked the air.

Captain Renji, a well-known pro hero, slammed his fists on the table. "He disobeyed a direct order!"

"He saved them," Keiko snapped from the corner. Her eyes burned.

"He endangered the operation! He's a support unit—not a hero!"

Satoru stood outside, helmet in hand, still coughing smoke. He heard every word.

---

That night, the video was clipped, cut, spun, and sent across networks.

#UnauthorizedIntervention trended before morning. So did #SupportOverstep.

Satoru lay awake, listening to the soft hum of the fan in his room, his bandaged arm aching. Not from the burns. From the weight.

He didn't regret saving them.

But for the first time—he wondered if the system really wanted people saved.