The building was half-collapsed, smoke bleeding from its seams.
Satoru Kojima crouched behind an overturned vending machine, clutching his side where a metal beam had kissed his ribs. Dust choked the air. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder. But they wouldn't arrive in time.
Inside the wreckage, a child's voice cried out.
"I'm stuck! Please—someone—!"
Satoru gritted his teeth, then moved.
His left leg was already numb, half-crushed earlier when the stairwell caved in. His goggles were cracked. The earpiece from Minato Base crackled with half-audible orders, but he was too deep in the building to answer now.
He shoved aside debris with one arm, crawling toward the voice. His breathing was shallow. The air was too hot. He found the boy under a collapsed bookshelf, one arm pinned.
"I got you," Satoru said. His voice came out rasping.
He wedged his shoulder under the beam and heaved. It didn't budge.
The boy sobbed. "It hurts."
"I know." Satoru grit his teeth harder. "We'll get out together. Just… hold on."
He shifted position, braced with both hands this time. His muscles screamed. Pain lanced down his spine. The burn scar on his back tugged with every breath. But slowly—inch by inch—the shelf lifted.
The boy scrambled free.
Satoru dropped the beam with a grunt, vision tunneling.
He managed to drag them both toward the nearest exit. Rubble shifted behind them. Smoke thickened.
Outside, two pro heroes from Minato Base finally burst through the side entrance.
"Over here!" one shouted.
Satoru raised his hand—and blacked out.
---
When he woke, it was to a dull ceiling light and the sharp scent of antiseptic.
He groaned. His leg was elevated. His ribs tightly bandaged.
"You know," said a familiar voice, "this would be easier if you didn't make a habit of playing meat shield every other week."
Satoru turned his head slowly. Sayaka Nakamura stood beside his bed, arms crossed over her nurse uniform, an IV drip swaying quietly behind her.
He blinked at her. "Is the kid okay?"
She exhaled. "Yes. Thanks to you. Again."
Satoru relaxed slightly. "Good."
Sayaka sat down next to him with a sigh.
"You sprained your ankle, cracked two ribs, and dislocated your shoulder. You're lucky you didn't end up in traction."
He looked away. "It was worth it."
She leaned forward, voice softer this time. "If you die doing this… who waters her flowers?"
That stopped him.
Satoru stared at the ceiling. For a long time, he didn't answer.
Finally: "I'm not planning to die."
Sayaka didn't smile. But her expression gentled. "You don't plan anything, Kojima. That's the problem."
She stood, adjusted his blanket, and left a small packet of jelly cups on the table.
"For when you stop being a stubborn idiot."
He smiled faintly. "Might be a while."
---
That night, Satoru didn't sleep much.
He lay in the hospital bed, watching the light of the moon spread over the tile floor. His helmet sat in the chair beside him, dented, soot-smeared. His gloves were torn.
His body felt like it was falling apart.
But deep in his chest, where the pain hadn't reached yet, something still burned quietly.
It wasn't pride.
It wasn't adrenaline.
It was the quiet certainty that the world still needed someone to show up, even when it hurt.