The call came at 1:17 a.m.
Just a "routine patrol assist" on the outskirts of Minato—some construction debris had blocked part of a narrow road, and a few elderly residents were stranded in a cul-de-sac without electricity. No villain, no quirked threat. Just inconvenience and darkness.
Satoru still responded.
He zipped up his coat, pulled on his gloves, and pushed his bike into the drizzle.
---
The night was slow. Heavy with fog and rain.
It took thirty minutes of winding through alleys to find the spot. An old man in pajamas waved him down with a flashlight. He looked confused, muttering something about his wife's oxygen machine being out.
Satoru nodded, knelt beside the power box, and started working. No one else had shown up yet—not the local ward office, not another hero. He was just a kid with a flashlight and soaked shoes.
A branch had knocked the wiring loose. Nothing dramatic. But it took fifteen minutes of fiddling with his multitool to patch a temporary fix. The power blinked back on with a buzz.
Inside, the old woman's breathing machine kicked back to life. Her husband let out a soft, cracked "Thank you" before retreating.
They didn't even ask who he was.
---
On the way back, his tire blew.
The sharp pop startled him. He almost lost balance, veering toward a lamppost before catching himself.
He stopped under a bus shelter and crouched beside the back wheel.
Of course it was the back tire. Of course he didn't have a patch kit. Of course it was almost 3 a.m. and the rain was heavier now.
He sat down beside his bike, helmet dripping, hands sore from gripping wet handlebars too long.
For a moment, he did nothing.
No one clapped. No one cheered.
He thought about calling Keiko, or Sayaka. But they were probably asleep. He didn't want to bother them.
He didn't want anyone to see him like this—soggy, tired, empty.
---
A cat crept by, tail flicking. It stopped and blinked at him.
Satoru blinked back. "You want something too?"
The cat meowed, unimpressed, and wandered off.
He snorted. It came out half a laugh, half a cough.
Then he stood up.
And began pushing the bike home.
---
Each step was heavy. His boots squelched. His legs ached. His hoodie stuck to his back. But he kept moving, one step at a time, through the misty streets.
He passed a billboard glowing with a pro hero's face. Flashy, smiling. The caption read: "Real heroes are born to shine."
Satoru kept walking.
He didn't shine. He didn't dazzle. He didn't fly.
But someone's power came back tonight. Someone kept breathing.
And he was still here.
Still walking.
Still riding—when it mattered.