The sunlight hit his face just right.
Soft. Golden. Not too hot. He blinked, turned his head against the pillow. The fan in the corner of the room buzzed lazily, stirring the edge of the curtain.
Birdsong filtered through the cracked window. A delivery bike hummed past on the street below.
Satoru yawned.
He stretched, slowly, wincing a little at the dull throb in his shoulder. He scratched the scar on his collarbone absentmindedly.
Still healing. Should probably stop picking at it.
He swung his legs off the bed.
The house was small, cluttered, but warm. A bento sat on the table with his name scrawled on it in girlish handwriting. A note beside it read:
"DON'T SKIP BREAKFAST, IDIOT. – Kei :)"
He smiled. Rolled his eyes. Picked up a rice ball.
The TV was on in the background. Some old rerun of a hero documentary. He wasn't watching it.
A knock at the door. He opened it to find Keiko with a basket of groceries. Sayaka followed, lecturing him already about not keeping enough bandages stocked.
Behind them, Miyako grinned and held up a plant for his window box.
"I brought flowers," she said.
He laughed. The air smelled like summer.
He stepped out into the street. Kids on bikes zoomed past. One of them shouted, "Mumen Rider!" and waved. The shop owners nodded at him. An old man tipped his cap.
Satoru adjusted the goggles at his eyes and started cycling toward Kamino's plaza.
Everything was bright.
Too bright.
The sun flickered.
He blinked—no, the whole street blinked. Like film skipping in an old projector. The kids froze mid-motion. The breeze stopped. The flag on the street went still.
A low sound crept in from the edges of everything.
Like static. Like something cracking.
---
His ribs ached.
He looked down.
His bike was gone.
So was the street. The air. The warmth.
He stood in a colorless space now—bleached and still and endless. Behind him, the flower shop door had vanished. Ahead of him: only white.
His hand trembled.
Blood was still on his palm.
He pressed it to his side. The pain bloomed again.
No. No, no, not here. Not yet.
He turned.
No one followed.
The flowers were gone.
The people he loved—gone.
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere:
"It's time."
---
He dropped to his knees.
The pain wasn't in his chest anymore.
It was everywhere.
"No—no, they were still there, I still had time—"
"Kana… her mom… did I…?"
He looked up, eyes wide.
"Did I protect them?"
Silence.
That silence said everything.
Satoru bowed his head. A broken sound escaped him. He squeezed his eyes shut. The light behind his lids was searing.
I wasn't strong enough.
I didn't make it.
I let them die.
I failed.
Tears ran down his face. They hit the colorless floor but didn't make a sound.
He thought of his mother's smile.
Of Sayaka's worry.
Of Keiko's scolding, Miyako's soft glances, the old man he'd saved, the kids who wore helmets in his name.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I couldn't—"
But then—
A flicker.
A hand.
A child's voice, somewhere far off:
"He saved us."
Another:
"He stood for us."
"He kept getting back up."
The white around him shimmered.
He opened his eyes.
And saw—just for a moment—Kana alive. Crying. Holding her mother. Behind them, Gran Torino, battered but standing.
A city in ruin. But not destroyed.
He had held the line.
He had given them a future.
His hands dropped to his sides.
A shaky breath.
Then a quiet smile.
"I see…"
"Guess I made it, huh?"
He stood again—barely.
The world faded further.
His body felt weightless now.
He looked up, somewhere beyond the white.
And faced us—the ones who walked with him through every chapter. Every patrol. Every pain.
The ones who knew how hard it had been.
The ones who saw him bleed and rise again.
His eyes were wet, but clear now.
And he said:
"Thank you… for walking with me."
"For believing in me… even when I couldn't."
He laughed—lightly, faintly, like wind through leaves.
"I was just a guy on a bike, y'know?"
"But if that meant something to you… then maybe it was enough."
The white grew brighter—so bright it swallowed everything.
Satoru turned toward it.
One last breath.
One last step.
And then—
Gone.