Rain fell softly against the pavement, soaking the curb and streaking the walls of the alleyway. The spot was quieter now. The charred marks had been scrubbed clean, but Satoru still remembered where the fire had licked the edge of the wall. Where Keiko had stood, trembling.
Where he had stood, crying.
He knelt down, fingers brushing the asphalt.
It felt smaller now. Like the ground had shrunk. Or maybe he'd just gotten a little bigger.
His backpack lay beside him, soaked through. Inside was his notebook, wrapped in plastic just in case. The pages were worn, filled with crooked sketches, notes, quotes, questions.
He flipped it open, finding the entry.
> "I stood up once. I can do it again."
He closed his eyes.
The sounds came rushing back: screams, glass shattering, Keiko's voice calling his name.
The villain's fire, the heat on his face.
And his own voice, breaking, cracked—
> "Don't hurt her!"
He hadn't fought. He hadn't been strong.
But he had stood up.
Because he couldn't let her be alone.
Because something inside him wouldn't let him freeze.
He stood now, the rain dripping from his bangs, his sleeves clinging to his arms. His breath fogged in the cool air.
He opened to the last page and took out his pen.
With slow, deliberate strokes, he wrote:
> "I will become a hero—quirk or not."
Not for glory. Not for praise.
But because someone had to.
Because someday, someone else might be scared.
And he wanted to be the one who stood up again.
Even if he cried.
Even if he failed.
He zipped the notebook shut and slung the backpack over his shoulder.
The rain didn't feel cold anymore.
And Satoru walked home with a quiet resolve in his step.