Rain blurred the streetlights. It wasn't heavy—just a soft drizzle, the kind that soaked through sleeves and hair before you realized it. The kind of night most people stayed home.
But not Satoru.
He coasted down the narrow backstreets of Minato Ward, his bicycle silent except for the soft ticking of the wheels. The reflective stripes on his patched uniform gleamed under the wet glow. His helmet was slightly scuffed—same as always. Same as him.
He wasn't cleared for full patrol yet—not after breaking his arm during the last altercation—but the agency had let him join tonight's support shift. No combat. Just observation, backup, and coordination.
Satoru had nodded, accepted the restriction.
Then ignored it.
He wasn't looking for trouble. But he always found it.
A shout cracked through the mist ahead.
He braked hard, tires skidding slightly on the wet asphalt. Around the corner, he saw it: a man in a courier jacket doubled over, a canvas bag ripped from his shoulder. A second figure—hood up, face obscured—was fleeing into the shadows with the bag.
Satoru didn't hesitate.
He leapt off the bike mid-turn, feet splashing against the pavement. His arm still throbbed—he wasn't supposed to use it yet—but his legs worked fine.
He chased.
The thief darted between parked cars, trying to lose him in the alleys. Satoru followed without thinking, instincts sharp. His lungs burned, but he didn't slow down. He never did.
Near the edge of the alley, the thief turned suddenly and swung something—a rusted crowbar, maybe.
It caught Satoru across the shoulder and he staggered, falling to one knee. Rain and dirt smeared his visor.
But he stood.
He always stood.
With a wordless yell, Satoru surged forward and tackled the thief. They hit the pavement hard. The courier bag skidded across the wet concrete. The thief punched wildly, landing a blow on Satoru's jaw. Pain flared. Stars danced across his vision.
But Satoru didn't let go.
It took two more hits before he could pin the thief's arm with his knee and wrench the crowbar away. Somewhere behind them, the courier stumbled into view, shouting for help.
Satoru didn't reply. He just held the thief down until the patrol car lights came into view, cutting through the fog.
---
Later, Satoru sat on the curb, breathing hard.
His knuckles were bloodied. His jaw ached like hell. The broken arm was safe—thank god—but his body was already screaming in protest. His muscles had nothing left to give.
Still, when the delivery man knelt beside him, thanking him over and over, Satoru just nodded.
"I was nearby," he said. "That's all."
---
Up above, on a rooftop across the street, a girl sat with her knees pulled to her chest.
Kana Fujimura.
She hadn't meant to watch him again. She didn't want to.
And yet…
There he was again. Bleeding. Bruised. Smiling faintly like an idiot as the police loaded the thief into a cruiser.
Why?
He wasn't even getting paid for this.
He was still a loser. Still weird. Still Quirkless.
But no matter how many times she saw him go down… he always got back up.
---
Down below, the Minato Base officer offered Satoru a blanket and a ride.
He refused the ride. Took the blanket. Thanked them.
Then climbed back onto his bike.
---
Kana sat on the rooftop wall, hugging her knees tighter. Her breath fogged in the night air.
She didn't say anything.
Didn't heckle him.
Didn't mock.
She just… watched.
Watched as he disappeared into the rain.
Watched as his tail-light blinked red, steady, like a heartbeat in the dark.