There was no warning.
Just a knock on the Kojima flower shop door—early, too early. Sunlight hadn't broken through the misty sky. The bell above the door didn't even chime.
Keiko opened it.
Two men in suits stood there. Clean-cut, smiling in that polite, cold way that meant nothing good.
"Public Safety Commission," one said. "Is Satoru Kojima available?"
Keiko didn't move at first. Her eyes narrowed.
"He's not home," she lied. "What do you want?"
The older of the two gave a paper-thin smile. "We'd like to speak with him. About recent… unauthorized activities."
Miyako, behind the counter, stopped stacking lilies.
Keiko stepped forward. "If you have something to say, say it here."
The younger one glanced around the modest shop. "This isn't the place."
"No," Keiko said, "but this is his place. If you want to question him, you better be ready to answer a few questions yourself."
There was silence. Then, the men handed her a folded letter—an official notice of inquiry.
They left without another word.
Miyako stepped forward, voice quiet. "Are they… arresting him?"
"No," Keiko said. Her hands trembled around the paper. "But they're building something."
---
At the hospital, Sayaka was organizing prescriptions when she overheard it:
Two interns whispering in the corner, voices low but urgent.
"He should've left it to the pros." "You saw the broadcast, right? The kid's unstable."
She didn't interrupt. Not yet. Just listened.
"Even Eraserhead said he's a risk."
That was the lie that made her freeze.
Later that day, she called in a favor. Old colleague. Government ties.
"What the hell is going on with Kojima?" she demanded.
There was a pause on the other end.
"…Someone's trying to set a precedent. That vigilantes—even support ones—are dangerous liabilities. Satoru just makes a good scapegoat."
Sayaka nearly shattered her phone.
---
Meanwhile, Satoru pedaled alone through light rain. Not patrolling. Just… moving.
He passed a street where a car had stalled. A young father waved helplessly at traffic. A toddler cried in the back seat.
Satoru pulled over. No hesitation. Helped push the car to the side. Checked the engine.
The father bowed deeply. "Thank you, Mumen Rider!"
Satoru just nodded and got back on his bike.
No cameras. No applause.
But when he reached into his pocket, he found something crumpled—a letter.
The one from the Commission.
Unopened.
He sighed. "Guess it's time."
---
At Minato Base, Aizawa read the report again. And again.
The mission where Satoru intervened. The one they claimed he disrupted.
Except the report kept leaving things out.
How the evac team had been late. How no pros made it to the family in time. How Mumen Rider had carried all two guys out before backup arrived.
"I was there," Aizawa muttered. "He didn't interfere. He filled in the cracks."
He picked up the phone.
"Get me a public hearing. I'm testifying."
---
That evening, Kana sat in the far back of a café, hoodie up, headphones on.
But she wasn't listening to music.
She was listening to a leaked voice recording—one that was going viral online.
A low, tired voice:
"I'm not here to be a star. I'm not trying to take anyone's spotlight. I just… I just wanna help. That's it. I don't care if they don't remember my name."
It was Satoru.
An old recording, pulled from an interview he hadn't known was being taped.
Kana gripped the edge of her table. Her pulse thudded.
"You should care," she whispered. "Because I remember."