Rain tapped the hospital windows like a ticking clock. The kind of storm that never quite turned violent, but never let up either—just pressure. Pressure in the clouds. Pressure behind the eyes.
Satoru Kojima sat at the edge of his bed, gripping the edge of his new armor like it might vanish.
The burns had healed. Sort of. The scabs had peeled, but not the weight.
He looked at his helmet on the table.
Mumen Rider.
That name meant something to other people now.
He just didn't know if it meant anything to him.
---
Downstairs, Sayaka leaned against the staff lounge wall, arms crossed, lips pressed tight. She watched a clip on her phone—again.
News anchor:
> "The so-called 'Mumen Rider' acted without official clearance. While two civilians were saved, the operation was disrupted—"
She stopped the video. Tossed her phone on the table. Took a deep breath. Her hands were trembling.
Another nurse passed her. "You okay?"
Sayaka nodded. "Just tired."
---
Later, Satoru rolled his bike—bent frame and all—out of the hospital courtyard. He wasn't supposed to ride yet. His ribs still ached if he breathed too deep.
But the hospital felt too quiet.
Too much like waiting.
Keiko was waiting outside, under an awning, arms full of groceries and a thermos.
She didn't speak.
Just handed him the thermos.
He took it.
"Still warm?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Still better than hospital food."
They sat on the bench near the gate, huddled beneath her umbrella. She watched cars pass. He watched the steam rise from the thermos.
Then she asked, quietly, "Why haven't you fought back?"
Satoru blinked. "What?"
"Against the Commission. Against the media. Against all the idiots calling you a danger."
He thought for a long time.
"I'm not here to prove them wrong," he said. "I'm here to help people. If I start chasing arguments, I'll forget why I started."
Keiko didn't answer right away.
Then: "That's stupid."
He smiled. "Yeah."
"I hate that it's also kind of noble."
---
That night, a storm warning spread across Tokyo.
At the flower shop, Miyako shut the doors early, wind battering the windows.
As she locked up, she saw the helmet on the back counter—the old one. The scratched, dented one Satoru used to wear.
She traced her fingers over the broken chin strap.
> "Why do you keep doing this?"
The wind howled. No answer came.
But she folded up a small handkerchief and left it tucked beneath the helmet.
> "For when the world forgets how kind you are."
---
Across the city, Kana climbed the fire escape behind her apartment.
At the top, wind ripping her hoodie back, she pulled out a folded photo from her pocket: grainy image of Satoru carrying a crying child out of smoke.
She stared at it a long time.
Then whispered, "I'd rather be like you than anyone else I know."
The wind snatched the photo from her hand.
She didn't chase it.
Just stood there, feeling the pressure in her chest, in the clouds, in her bones.
Then clenched her fists.
A faint pop of kinetic air hissed around her knuckles.
She was ready to explode. She just didn't know where yet.