The alley was dark and narrow, lit only by a flickering streetlamp that buzzed overhead like a dying insect.
Satoru stood just outside it, gripping his notebook tight to his chest, heart pounding like a war drum. His bicycle leaned against the wall behind him, its handlebars wrapped in black tape to mute the reflection. A small, cheap camera dangled from his neck—borrowed from Keiko, though she didn't know it.
He wasn't here to fight. He just wanted to see what real patrol looked like.
What heroes did when no one clapped.
---
For two weeks now, he had been watching from the edges—studying the pro heroes in his district from a distance. Patrol routes, behavior patterns, how they talked to civilians, how they moved when they weren't performing for cameras.
His notebook had become a map of moments. Scribbled-down advice. Mistakes he saw them make. Questions he didn't have the answers to.
> "Pro Hero Maika—told injured man he was fine. Man collapsed five minutes later."
> "Hero Blaze ignored a child crying near a fire scene. Was it on purpose?"
> "Is it better to be fast or thorough?"
The questions gnawed at him. So tonight, he decided to try.
Not to intervene. Just… observe up close.
---
He wore a black hoodie, long pants, and fingerless gloves.
No emblem. No name.
But in his pocket: a pair of cheap, plastic goggles he'd ordered online. They fogged up easily, but they made him feel protected. Made him feel like he could pretend to be something more than a scared kid.
He crouched near a dumpster, heart in his throat, and waited.
Around midnight, it happened.
A mugging. Just like that.
Two men—one tall, masked, armed with a broken bat. The other, smaller, yelling something incoherent. Their target was a delivery guy, late 20s, maybe older, helmet still on, defending himself with a kickstand.
Satoru froze.
> "Do I go in?" "No quirk. No weapon." "Can I distract them?" "Will they kill me?"
His knees shook. He couldn't breathe. All the notes in his book meant nothing now.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't act.
A blur of motion beat him to it.
A local pro hero—Rush Hour—sprinted into the scene, grabbed both muggers by the scruff, slammed them into the pavement like rag dolls.
Just like that, it was over.
Satoru stayed hidden, breathing like he'd just run ten miles. His hands trembled.
He didn't feel inspired.
He felt ashamed.
---
He biked home in silence.
Didn't cry. Didn't scream.
But the shame lingered like oil in his throat.
---
At home, he sat on his bed, staring at the notebook. Then wrote:
> "Attempt #1: Failed. Froze up. Couldn't move."
Then below it:
> "Still not ready. Still scared."
He slammed the book shut.
Laid down.
Stared at the ceiling for hours.
---
In the morning, Keiko saw the camera charging in the living room.
"You go out last night?"
He didn't look up from the sink. "Just biking."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're not doing anything stupid, are you?"
He forced a smile. "Nothing heroic."
She didn't laugh.
---
In his notebook that night, he reopened the same page.
> "Still not ready. Still scared."
He added one more line beneath:
> "But I saw. And I learned."