Mumen Rider in MHA

Smoke twisted up into the sky, black against gray.

A warehouse near the edge of town had gone up in flames. The fire had started during a supply delivery—an electrical spark, maybe. Or someone careless. No one knew for sure.

By the time the first responders arrived, two workers were still trapped inside. One unconscious. One screaming for help.

It was chaos.

Sirens. Barricades. Shouting.

And in the middle of it all—

Satoru Kojima.

Helmet on. Armor damp from rain. Goggles fogged.

He stood at the edge of the barricade, his bike resting on its kickstand behind him. Officials barked into radios. A pro hero with a quirk-based cooling system was pacing, waiting for clearance.

Satoru didn't wait.

---

"Hey! That kid's not certified for entry!"

The voice came too late.

He'd already crossed the line.

---

The fire roared as he ducked inside.

Heat slammed into him like a wall. Smoke clawed at his lungs. The world narrowed to flickering orange light and the sound of cracking beams.

He moved fast—low to the ground, armored boots crunching over broken crates.

Someone groaned to the left.

Satoru found the source: a young man pinned beneath a metal beam.

"Hang on," Satoru said. "I've got you."

He braced himself. Metal seared his gloves. He hissed through his teeth and pulled.

His arms screamed. His shoulders burned.

But the beam shifted. Just enough.

He dragged the man out.

A second figure—conscious, coughing violently—appeared through the haze, helping him lift the injured one.

Satoru guided them both toward the door.

Another explosion rocked the far side of the building.

They stumbled.

And then—

The roof gave a low groan. A support beam cracked loose.

It was going to fall.

Satoru didn't think. He just moved.

---

Outside, a second explosion sent everyone ducking.

From the dust—

Three figures emerged. Two leaning on the third.

All of them breathing.

Satoru collapsed the moment they crossed the barricade.

---

Later, he woke in the hospital.

Bandages on his shoulder. IV in his arm. His left side blistered but healing.

Sayaka sat nearby, flipping through his chart.

"You're not on fire," she said dryly, "which is already an improvement."

Satoru managed a weak laugh.

Then he turned serious. "Did they make it?"

Sayaka nodded. "Both of them. No critical damage."

He let out a breath.

She looked at him.

Really looked.

And said: "Stop trying to make yourself a martyr."

"I'm not."

"You're not trying to be a hero either. You already are one. Start acting like you want to live long enough to stay that way."

---

That night, while Sayaka changed his dressing, Satoru whispered:

"If I hadn't gone in—"

"You did," she cut in. "And you came back out."

She paused. Then added, gentler: "Don't make me start praying. I hate praying."

---

Across town, the story hit the local news again. A "civilian" helping in a pro mission.

Online debates ignited.

Was it reckless? Heroic? Both?

Aizawa, when reached for comment, simply said:

> "I've seen worse. I've seen better. But he's not wrong."

---

In her apartment, Kana stared at the headline on her screen.

> "HELMET HERO STRIKES AGAIN"

Her grip tightened.

She slammed the laptop shut.

Then whispered to herself, in a voice that almost broke:

"…idiot."

---

The fire hadn't taken him. But it had taken something—something small, invisible. A little more of his strength. A little more of his fear. But not his will. Never his will.