Mumen Rider in MHA

The city kept buzzing.

Not with praise. Not even with scorn.

With doubt.

News panels flashed across every monitor in the station Keiko worked at. Debates aired on the evening news. Online forums surged with a mix of outrage, defense, mockery.

Satoru Kojima—Mumen Rider—wasn't a name whispered anymore.

It was dissected.

---

One of the talking heads on Hero TV slammed the desk.

"Look, I'm not saying the kid's a villain. But he's unlicensed. He interfered in an active pro mission. What if someone else had gotten hurt because of him? What if his actions escalated things?"

Another replied, more softly, "But he didn't. He saved two lives. If that's not heroic, what is?"

The anchor interjected: "Intent doesn't erase consequences. And it's not up to children to decide when to be heroes."

---

Back at Minato Base, the mood was thick.

Even some of the pros who'd once smiled at Satoru now avoided his gaze. Paperwork piled up. Mission briefings became colder.

His youth field certification was "under review."

No missions. No support calls. Just silence.

Captain Eizo, the base commander, finally summoned him.

Eizo was blunt, always had been. Grizzled, eyes like ash, voice like static.

"You've got a heart, Kojima. But heart doesn't clear lawsuits."

Satoru stood straighter. "I didn't break protocol to be reckless."

"You broke it all the same."

Silence.

Then Eizo sighed. "Off the record… I would've done the same."

He handed Satoru a packet of suspension documents. "Stay off the streets for now. You understand?"

Satoru nodded. He left the office without speaking another word.

---

Keiko met him outside.

"I heard," she said.

"Yeah."

"I don't think you were wrong."

He didn't answer. Just stared ahead.

Her voice cracked. "But if they take your license—"

"They haven't yet," he murmured.

Keiko stepped in front of him. "So what? You just take this?"

"No," he said, soft but certain. "I live with it."

---

That night, a community livestream aired in a modest corner of the internet. It featured stories from civilians Satoru had helped.

A mother who lost her purse but got it back from a helmeted teen.

A delivery boy who was shielded from debris during a quake.

A shop owner whose storefront was protected from looters during a riot.

"I never saw his face," one said, voice shaking. "But I remember the way he stood."

---

Meanwhile, Miyako stayed late at the flower shop, stringing together a bouquet of forget-me-nots and sunflowers.

She wasn't good with cameras. Didn't want to be on any livestream. But she wrote a letter.

> "He delivers flowers when he's not saving people."

> "He bikes in the rain."

> "He listens when I talk."

> "He's not trying to be a hero. He just doesn't know how to stop helping."

She left it at the shop door, unsigned.

Satoru found it the next morning.

He read it three times.

Then quietly placed it in the drawer beside his gloves.

---

At the hospital, Sayaka saw his face when he came to visit his mother.

He looked calmer.

Not better.

But steadier.

"You know they're going to keep trying to cut you down," she said.

"I know."

She handed him a bottle of water and a protein bar. "So eat. Then stand up again."

---

Kana, watching the livestream replay in her room, grips her pillow hard.

The flash of his dented helmet.

The words: "Even if you take away his license, you can't take away what he already gave us."

---

And so the city debated. But the people—some of them—had already decided.