The fluorescent lights in the Minato Base auxiliary room flickered once before humming to life. Satoru Kojima leaned against the wall near the lockers, arms folded across his chest, jacket unzipped halfway, revealing gauze still wrapped beneath his shirt. His ankle ached. His ribs ached. Even his eyelids felt bruised.
He'd just passed the final youth field certification evaluation. Nothing glamorous—just a written report, two practicals, and a debrief. No applause. No interviews. Just quiet nods and tired paperwork.
He didn't mind.
Recognition wasn't the point.
Still, when he stepped out of the room, he didn't expect what waited for him in the hall.
Sayaka Nakamura stood near a bench, arms crossed, her usual white nurse coat replaced with a weatherproof windbreaker. Beside her was Keiko Kojima, off-duty and still in her uniform pants, carrying a black duffel bag.
Satoru raised an eyebrow. "...You two coordinated?"
Sayaka smirked. "We text sometimes. Scary, right?"
Keiko rolled her eyes and shoved the duffel into his chest. "Don't make a big deal out of it. Just open it."
Confused, Satoru set it on the bench and unzipped the bag.
Inside: a new armored riding vest—sleek and reinforced at the chest and spine, designed with mobility in mind. A matching matte helmet with a reinforced visor. Upgraded goggles with scratch-resistance and light modulation. It was simple. Tough. Purpose-built.
His eyes widened. "You… made this?"
Sayaka shrugged. "I stitched some things. Your sister did the rest."
Keiko looked away, arms folded. "It's not official hero gear. But it'll keep you standing a little longer."
He ran a hand over the smooth surface of the helmet. It wasn't flashy. It didn't scream power.
It looked exactly like him.
"I don't know what to say."
Sayaka gave him a flat look. "Say you'll stop crashing into things."
Satoru chuckled. "No promises."
He picked up the armor and stepped toward the nearby restroom to change. When he came out, the gear was snug but weightless, every piece carefully tailored.
Keiko gave him a once-over. "Okay… yeah. That works."
Sayaka raised an eyebrow. "You almost look like someone worth listening to."
He adjusted the new helmet under his arm and sat on the bench beside the duffel. The hallway was quiet, just the sound of distant chatter from the training grounds.
Keiko sat beside him. "Have you thought of a name yet?"
He paused. Then, without looking at either of them, he said:
"Mumen Rider."
Sayaka blinked. "What?"
"It means 'Unlicensed Rider.'" He gave a faint, almost sheepish grin. "It fits. I'm not a hero. Not by the rankings. Not by the books. But I ride. I protect. I keep moving."
Keiko tilted her head. "It's dumb."
Sayaka smiled faintly. "It's perfect."
They sat in silence for a while.
Eventually, Sayaka stood. "I have a shift. Don't die tonight."
Keiko reached over and nudged his shoulder. "Seriously. If you break another bone, I'm hiding your bike."
"I'll try not to," he said.
He watched them walk away—two pillars of his small, patchwork world.
Satoru looked down at the helmet in his lap.
Mumen Rider.
No cape. No powers. Just a bike, two hands, and an aching promise he'd made to himself.
To keep standing.
To never stop.