The city breathed differently at night.
There was less traffic, fewer lights—but more tension. The shadows felt longer. The silence deeper. This was when people did the things they didn't want the world to see.
Keiko Kojima stood on patrol near the edge of the train station underpass, fingers resting lightly on her belt. Her uniform was crisp, though her shoulders sagged slightly with fatigue. She hadn't slept much lately. Not since Satoru's latest trip to the hospital.
Her radio buzzed, static cracking through the speaker.
"Suspect apprehended on 2nd and Yashima. Proceeding with processing."
She exhaled.
Everything felt too loud and too quiet all at once.
There were days—no, nights—when she hated this job. Not because it was hard. She could handle hard. But because it made her feel like she was always one step too late. Always arriving after something had already broken.
She shifted on her feet, eyes scanning the near-empty street. Her breath fogged faintly in the air.
Her thoughts slipped—back to that hospital room. To the sight of her little brother lying there with his arm in a cast, bruises blooming down his jaw. That stupid tired smile of his.
> "I had to do something."
He always had to do something.
"Moron," she muttered.
A sudden shout caught her attention.
Across the street, a man in a dark hoodie had just yanked a purse from a woman's shoulder. She stumbled back, falling hard to the pavement with a cry.
Keiko didn't hesitate.
"Police! Stop!"
The thief looked back—and ran.
She gave chase.
Her boots pounded against wet concrete, siren-lights from a nearby corner store flashing red and blue across the buildings. The thief cut down an alley, and she followed, breath tight in her chest.
> Don't be reckless.
Don't be like him.
But she pushed faster.
The thief skidded on the damp ground, tried to vault over a chain-link gate—and failed. Keiko slammed into him from behind and wrestled him down, knee pressing hard into his back.
"Stay down!" she barked.
He struggled, spitting curses. "Crazy b—!"
She twisted his arm behind his back and cuffed him clean. No hesitation.
"You have the right to remain silent," she snapped. "I suggest you use it."
Once the cuffs clicked into place, he went limp.
"You the Helmet Guy's sister?" the man sneered suddenly, glancing at her badge. "I seen your face on the news when they were talkin' 'bout him."
Keiko froze.
Something burned behind her eyes.
"He's your brother, right?" the thief chuckled, bitter. "No wonder you got the same hero complex."
The next moment, he yelped as she tightened the cuffs—just enough to make a point.
"I'm nothing like him," Keiko said coldly. "I'm a trained officer. I do things by the book."
But her hands were shaking.
She dragged him to his feet, called in backup, and handed him off without another word.
---
The walk home was longer than usual.
She took the quiet streets, her patrol jacket slung over one arm now, her breath rising in clouds as the night deepened around her.
Helmet Guy.
They said it with amusement now. Admiration, even.
Her little brother.
The idiot who threw himself into every burning alley, every backstreet brawl, every stupid mugging like the city owed him something. Like he owed it.
And maybe he did.
But he was still just a boy. Her boy. Her Satoru.
She passed the darkened window of their flower shop and saw the dim silhouette of the counter inside. The faint outline of the paper crane the girl had left earlier still rested there.
She stopped.
Rested her palm against the glass.
He was changing things.
She didn't know when it happened. Or how. But he was. One broken rib, one stupid bike ride, one stitched-up hand at a time.
> "You were always the brave one," he'd said.
Keiko closed her eyes and whispered into the night.
"Idiot… you really are becoming something, huh?"
And maybe, just maybe, she was proud of him.
Even if it scared her half to death.