"So tell me, who's your pick for the next big hero?"
The interviewer leaned forward eagerly, lips glossed and smile rehearsed. Across from her on the sleek TV studio couch sat Glory Fist, a rising star in the pro hero circuit—powerful, loud, media-trained to the bone.
Glory Fist grinned. "Oh, you know me. I like winners. Flash. Firepower."
He paused, then laughed dismissively. "Definitely not that… pedal-pushing mascot I've been seeing online. What's his name? Muffin Rider?"
The crowd tittered.
"No offense," he added with a smirk, "but if your main skill is biking in traffic, maybe stick to food delivery."
The segment cut to commercial.
---
Satoru stood behind the flower shop counter, wiping down the register. The tiny TV in the corner buzzed with static before resuming the daytime talk show. Sayaka's voice floated from behind the doorframe.
"Hey," she called from the back room, folding clean hospital towels they'd borrowed during his mom's last visit. "You seeing this garbage?"
Keiko leaned against the wall nearby, her arms crossed. "Turn it off before I break something."
But Satoru only smiled faintly. The footage had been looping for days—his dented helmet, the sling over one shoulder, dragging two civilians through a flooded alley on a rusted bike. It hadn't gone viral because of the skill. It went viral because it shouldn't have worked—and somehow, it had.
It was already everywhere. Social feeds. Street gossip. Even the old man who came for chrysanthemums had asked, "That Helmet Rider kid—he one of yours?"
Satoru had only shrugged.
The mockery didn't sting as much as it used to.
---
Across town, Kana sat on a swing in a nearly empty park, kicking dirt with her heel. She stared at her phone screen, scrolling past comments under the TV clip.
> "Can't believe they're dragging a kid for trying." "Mumen Rider saved my cousin. Guy's real." "He ain't flashy. But he's here. Every. Night."
She locked her phone and slipped it into her pocket. Her hands were still bandaged from her last suspension.
---
In a cramped apartment, Miyako's father flipped through the channels before pausing on the broadcast replay. He snorted.
"These new heroes are all soft."
Miyako sat quietly at the table, folding an origami crane. Her fingers worked slowly, carefully.
She didn't say a word.
---
That night, the delivery worker Satoru had once shielded during a mugging left a small basket of fruit at the flower shop's doorstep. No note. Just a sticker on the wrapping:
"Thanks, Rider."
Sayaka found it the next morning and rolled her eyes. "You're becoming a myth, Kojima."
Satoru looked up from trimming a bouquet. "I'm not trying to be one."
Keiko passed behind him, snatching a cookie from the tray. "Doesn't matter. You are now."
---
That evening, Satoru sat in his tiny room above the shop. The helmet rested beside his bed, the armor still drying on the balcony.
He scrolled past the headlines. The jabs. The praise. The debates.
One user had posted a short clip, slowed down, of him shielding a crying child from falling debris, his back hunched, unmoving, bike blocking the rubble.
The caption read:
> "He didn't move like a hero. He moved like a shield."
Satoru stared at the screen for a long time.
Then locked it. Placed it face-down on the desk.
He picked up his notebook and wrote something in the margin beside a checklist.
Name: Mumen Rider
Mission: Protect. Even when it hurts.
He paused.
And smiled.
> "I'm not here to win," he whispered aloud.
"I'm here to protect."