Mumen Rider in MHA

The first morning in Kamino broke gray and damp. Fog clung to the power lines like it was afraid to let go.

Satoru pedaled slowly through the neighborhood, the soft whirr of his tires echoing off familiar brick and concrete. His new armor creaked slightly—sleek black-and-brown plating over reinforced underlayers. His helmet sat snug on his head, goggles reflective. It didn't shine like a pro hero's costume. But it held.

A child ran to the window as he passed a daycare, pressing sticky palms against the glass.

"Helmet Guy!" they shouted.

A teacher pulled the curtain closed gently but didn't scold.

He didn't wave. He just nodded and kept riding.

---

This place had changed. But not much.

Satoru passed the alley where he once pulled a teenager out of a mugging. The corner store where he'd stopped a runaway bike from crashing into a stroller. The rusted mural on the underpass wall—someone had painted a rider in black, crouched mid-leap.

Under it, in thick red strokes:

"We still believe."

He stopped his bike for a moment, staring up at it.

A man walking his dog paused beside him.

"You're him, right?" the man asked, voice cautious. "The one from before?"

Satoru adjusted his helmet. "Could be."

The man nodded once. "You saved my neighbor's kid. You're not forgotten."

Then he walked on.

Satoru stood there a moment longer, something unreadable in his eyes.

---

Later, he passed the edge of the old district, where buildings sagged inward and graffiti clung to every concrete wall. A group of teens sat on a rooftop ledge, watching him coast down the main street.

They didn't heckle.

One of them raised a can in silent salute.

He kept moving.

---

At noon, the clouds thinned. He bought a steamed bun from a cart vendor who said nothing, but added an extra one to the bag.

At 2:14 p.m., he helped a woman push her car out of an intersection after the engine died. She stared at him like she recognized him—but never said a word.

At 4:00 p.m., a neighborhood kid shyly handed him a sketch of "Helmet Guy" on a bike. He accepted it with a quiet thank-you.

By dusk, Satoru had a pocket full of crumpled receipts, a bun wrapper, and the sketch tucked into his chest plate.

---

That night, he sat atop a low rooftop near the harbor, legs dangling over the side. Lights flickered across Kamino's distant skyline like nervous heartbeats.

His breath fogged the edge of his goggles.

He spoke aloud, to no one:

"Still here, huh?"

The city didn't answer.

But it didn't need to.