The morning air bit at his lungs.
Satoru had waited until the sun was barely up, slipping out the door before anyone else stirred. He wore his oldest hoodie, sleeves too long and frayed, the drawstrings pulled tight around his face. His sneakers were worn down to the sole, and every step on the cracked pavement felt like walking on memory.
But he didn't turn back.
He jogged.
Or tried to.
Within ten steps, his breath hitched. His legs burned. Sweat prickled behind his neck, and a sharp cramp stabbed under his ribs. He stopped, doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping.
A part of him—the loud, cruel one—whispered, See? You're not built for this.
But he stayed bent over only for a moment.
Then he straightened, and he walked.
Ten more steps.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty, before he had to stop again.
---
At school, nothing had changed.
The boys who always picked on him still nudged his chair when the teacher wasn't looking. Still snickered behind his back. Still called him names that clung like burrs to his brain.
But he didn't flinch.
Not this time.
He kept his head down, eyes forward.
He didn't fight back.
But he didn't freeze either.
That afternoon, he helped his mother unload a shipment at the flower shop. Boxes of tulips and eucalyptus, all wrapped in brown paper. He carried more than usual, even when his arms trembled under the weight.
His mother smiled. "You're stronger lately."
He just shrugged, hiding the glow in his chest.
---
That night, he opened his notebook again.
This time, he didn't write words.
He drew.
Badly.
A helmet. Round and solid, with a thick visor. He gave it wide goggles, shaded dark like motorcycle gear. A chin strap. Reinforcement lines.
Next to it, padding—like elbow and knee guards. Chest plating. A cheap utility belt. Bike gloves.
Underneath, in crooked block letters:
> "If I can't be strong… maybe I can be prepared."
He stared at the page until the lines blurred.
He imagined himself wearing it.
Still shaking. Still scared. But standing up anyway.
He added a bike next.
Not because it looked cool.
Because he knew he'd never be fast enough on foot.
---
He kept jogging in secret.
Two blocks became three.
Some nights, he collapsed on his bedroom floor, hoodie drenched, chest heaving.
But he didn't stop.
He watched hero documentaries late at night—volume low, eyes wide. Not the flashy ones with explosions and triumph. The quiet ones. The ones about rescue squads, search and support. The people who didn't punch—they pulled rubble off survivors.
He listened to what they said.
> "It's not about winning. It's about showing up."
> "Sometimes, we're the ones who arrive last. But it still matters that we arrive."
He wrote down quotes in the back of his notebook.
Some pages were smudged with sweat.
Some had tiny blood drops from scraped palms.
But they were filling up.
---
One night, as he lay in bed, legs sore and breath still uneven, he looked at the helmet sketch again.
It was still messy. Still looked like something from a kid's manga.
But it felt right.
A helmet, goggles, padding.
Not to make him powerful.
Just to give him a little time.
A few more seconds to stand between someone and danger.
He smiled faintly, then turned the page and started sketching a new version—cleaner lines, tighter fit.
He didn't know if he'd ever become a hero.
But he was becoming someone who tried.
And that, for now, was enough.