The sun hadn't risen yet when Satoru stepped outside. The streetlights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a washed-out glow on the sidewalk. He zipped up his hoodie, yanked the drawstrings tight around his face, and started jogging.
His knees ached by the fifth step.
His lungs burned by the tenth.
But he kept going.
One block. Two. Half of a third before his body forced him to stop, bent over, gasping for air. He rested against a telephone pole, hands on his knees, forehead damp with sweat. The early morning silence wrapped around him, indifferent.
He stood there a while.
Then he walked the rest of the way home.
---
The school bell rang. Students shuffled into their classrooms like cattle—laughing, yelling, throwing crumpled paper. Satoru sat in the back, the same seat every day, close to the window.
When he walked in, someone bumped his shoulder. On purpose. He didn't look up.
The teacher barely glanced at him as he took attendance. "Kojima Satoru?"
"Here."
"Speak up."
"Here." Louder. Flat.
The lesson moved on. He stared down at his notebook—not the hero one, just his class notes. The words on the page blurred together. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and kept copying anyway.
At lunch, he sat alone. He didn't mind anymore.
The noise didn't reach him. It passed around him like wind around a stone.
---
After school, he biked to the flower shop.
His mom gave him a tired smile when he walked in. Her sleeves were rolled up, hands damp with soil, a mask loosely hanging around her chin.
"You're late, sweetheart."
"Sorry. Took the long way."
She looked like she wanted to say more but didn't. She just nodded to the back room.
He got to work—trimming stems, sweeping petals, reorganizing vases. He carried crates heavier than he should've. Bruised his knuckles lifting an old ceramic pot.
By closing time, his shirt clung to his back with sweat.
His mom kissed his cheek. "Go shower. You smell like chrysanthemums."
He smiled. "Could be worse."
---
That night, he closed his bedroom door quietly and pulled out his hero notebook.
He turned to a blank page, wrote the date at the top, and beneath it:
> "Push-ups: 10 (arms shaking). Sit-ups: 20. Jog: 2.5 blocks, stopped twice."
He stared at the page.
Then, below that:
> "School: Nothing new. Flower shop: Rearranged delivery schedule. Mom coughed again. Training: Body hurts. Feels good."
He flipped back a few pages. His handwriting had gotten steadier. His notes sharper. The first few pages were just messy sketches and questions:
> "How do non-combat heroes respond first?" "What would a rescue-only hero look like?"
And, on the very first page:
> "I stood once. I can do it again."
He closed the book, placed it under his pillow, and turned off the light.
The moonlight came in through the curtains.
He whispered to no one:
"I'll keep going."
Nobody heard him.
But that didn't matter.
He wasn't doing it to be seen.