Mumen Rider in MHA

All For One floated above the cracked concrete, surrounded by a slow cyclone of debris and dread. His masked face turned slightly, amused.

"So. The little bike courier wants to play hero."

Satoru didn't answer. The crowd watching from screens across the country saw it: a dented helmet, one goggle lens shattered, armor scorched at the shoulders. He stood between All For One and the unconscious woman and girl behind him. His body trembled slightly, not from fear—but from the sheer force of the blow he had just taken.

In living rooms, hospital wings, street corners, people leaned in.

---

"This guy... isn't a pro," one civilian muttered.

"He doesn't even have a quirk," said another, awestruck.

"Then why is he still standing?"

---

"Because that's what heroes do."

Satoru raised his fists.

All For One descended slowly, casually. "I could crush you with a finger. You know that."

"Yeah."

His voice was hoarse, but steady. He spat blood to the side.

"But I won't let you hurt them."

All For One lunged. The first strike was a blast of concussive wind.

Satoru dove left, rolled, the armor scraping against pavement. Before he could rise fully, a second strike caught him square in the chest, sending him flying into a ruined streetlamp.

Groans echoed from the crowd behind the cameras.

Miyako covered her mouth. Keiko clutched her chest. Sayaka screamed again from the hospital room.

"GET UP!"

And he did.

Satoru stumbled forward. Blood dripped from his temple. The strap of his chest armor had snapped loose. Still, he raised his fists.

All For One paused—just for a moment.

"Look at yourself. Barely alive. You think this is noble?"

Satoru staggered forward again.

"It's not about nobility."

His knees buckled, but he didn't fall.

"It's about standing. Every time you want someone else to fall."

---

At a middle school gym-turned-shelter, an old man clenched his cane.

"He saved me when no one else would. Pulled me out of a burning stairwell. Didn't say his name. Just nodded and left."

A kid nearby whispered, "That's him... the guy who gave me his gloves when I was cold."

"Why would he... if he knew he couldn't win?"

The old man stared at the screen, voice cracking.

"Because it matters."

---

All For One struck again.

A blast of pressure knocked Satoru off his feet. His bike—which had clattered into a wall earlier—slid across the pavement with a screech.

He crawled.

Kana, groaning faintly, watched with a single swollen eye. She didn't cry. She couldn't. Her breath was too shallow. But her voice, barely a whisper, carried anyway.

"Why do you keep... standing?"

Satoru heard her. He turned his head slightly. And smiled.

"Because I have to."

He planted one foot beneath him. Then the other. He rose again. Arms sagging, knees shaking. But standing.

---

All Might still struggling with the tendrils, watched with trembling fingers.

Gran Torino, still pinned, eyes wide, whispered to the dust and ruin around him:

"He has no power. No glory. No legacy... but the world will remember this."

---

All For One hissed in irritation.

"Stay down."

Satoru exhaled.

"No."

He raised his fists again.

"Because if I don't stand, no one else can move. So I will."

He stepped forward.

Once more into the storm.