The helmet wasn't pretty.
It was a scratched-up bicycle helmet, repainted with matte black spray and patched along the crown with thick lines of duct tape. The chin strap didn't quite fit right, and the left side still had a dent from when he slipped on a rainy curb last week.
But to Satoru, it was sacred.
He tightened the strap beneath his jaw, adjusted the goggles over his eyes, and stood in front of his bedroom mirror.
He looked ridiculous. A lanky, seventeen-year-old kid in a mismatched windbreaker, gloves too big, kneepads strapped over faded jeans.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, he would step outside—not just to train, or observe—but to act.
It was his first patrol.
---
He'd planned for months. Notebook pages filled with maps, escape routes, patrol paths. He'd bought the cheapest reflective vest online, tore it apart, and stitched the fabric into his jacket lining. Safety lights clipped to his belt. A patched first-aid kit rode in his backpack, next to a spare phone battery and duct tape.
The bike had been cleaned three times. Tires pumped. Brakes double-checked.
He clicked on his front light. Strapped his notebook into the carrier.
And then, slowly, he opened the front door.
The city waited beyond—dim, quiet, vast.
---
Satoru pedaled out into the sleeping streets.
The roads shimmered faintly under streetlamps. Traffic had thinned. The neighborhood was still.
He stuck to his pre-planned route: the north loop—around the park, past the old train line, and through the narrow alleys behind the shopping street.
No incidents.
Just wind, tires, the hum of a distant train.
---
Some people saw him. Some laughed.
A group of teens at a vending machine stared. One snorted.
> "Yo, check out Pedal Man. Off to fight crime or deliver pizza?"
Another added, "Hope the villains take tips."
Satoru didn't stop. Didn't look.
He kept riding.
---
At 2nd Street Park, he saw a man struggling with his cart—one wheel jammed in the pavement crack.
Satoru parked his bike, walked over, and wordlessly helped lift it free.
The man blinked at him. "Uh… thanks, kid. Who are you?"
He just nodded and turned back to his bike.
> "Just passing through."
---
Later, after two full loops, he returned to his small room, hands shaking not from cold but adrenaline.
He logged everything:
> "Patrol Log: Route 1 complete. Incidents: 1 (aid to civilian). Equipment status: Goggles fogged too easily. Reposition helmet straps."
He clicked off his headlamp. Rested his helmet on the desk.
And wrote at the top of the next page:
> "Codename: Mumen Rider." "Tonight, I became someone who moves."
He looked once more in the mirror. Not strong. Not fearless.
But visible.
> "If I can't be strong, I'll be visible."