Mumen Rider in MHA

The briefing room at Minato Base smelled like old coffee and rain-soaked uniforms. Satoru Kojima sat at the end of the table, armor half-scuffed and goggles resting atop his head. He hadn't bothered to remove his gloves.

Across from him, the patrol coordinator flipped through a thin file.

"Kamino Ward," she said. "High villain activity this month. The Commission wants more presence without raising alarms. Think you're up for it?"

Satoru blinked once. Then nodded. "When do I leave?"

"Tonight, if you're good to go."

He stood.

"I'm always good to go."

---

Sayaka found him minutes later, sitting by the vending machine in the hospital wing.

"You're being reassigned to Kamino?" she asked, brows slightly lifted, already knowing the answer.

Satoru gave a tired smile. "Minato Base thinks it's better I go early. Calm the streets, maybe give people something steady to look at."

Sayaka stared at him for a moment. "Kamino's where your name started, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"And now you're going back."

Another nod.

She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a wrapped rice ball, and held it out. "Eat something before you go, Kojima."

He took it with a soft, "Thanks, Nurse."

"Don't 'Nurse' me. That's my job title, not my name." She glanced down at his hand—still bandaged from the last patrol. "You've been limping."

"Only a little."

"And coughing."

"I like dramatic entrances."

Sayaka exhaled. Then, quieter:

"Feels like you're being pulled back there."

Satoru looked away. His voice softened.

"Feels like I'm meant to be there."

---

He packed light: a single duffel bag, a backup helmet strap, and an old polaroid photo he kept tucked into the lining of his armor. It was fraying at the edges now—Keiko, his mom, and him, younger, laughing in front of the flower shop.

He didn't bring flowers.

Didn't feel right.

---

Keiko stood at the edge of the street as his bike's tires hissed over the wet asphalt.

"You'll call, right?" she asked, arms crossed, lips tight.

"I'll text," Satoru offered. "Maybe even send a postcard."

She didn't smile. But she stepped forward and adjusted the strap of his duffel. "Try not to die doing good things."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She didn't hug him. But she didn't move either—not until he was already pedaling away.

---

Kamino smelled the same. Wet pavement. Fried fish. The quiet tension of too many windows watching but not opening.

A dog barked once as he passed a shuttered convenience store.

Someone stepped out of a doorway, gave him a salute.

He returned it without slowing down.

No news headlines.

No cheers.

Just the quiet hum of tires over broken road, and the feeling in his chest that something was coming.

Something bigger than before.

He didn't know what.

But he kept pedaling.