The city library was three blocks from the flower shop, tucked between a laundromat and a noodle bar. It wasn't much—just two floors, dusty shelves, and flickering fluorescent lights—but to Satoru, it felt like a hidden fortress. Quiet. Forgotten. Perfect.
He slipped inside after work, still smelling faintly of fertilizer and rose water. The old lady at the front desk nodded as he passed. She didn't ask questions. He liked that.
He made a beeline to the back corner: nonfiction, middle shelf.
Rescue Response: A Guide to Field Stabilization.
Traffic Control Theory: Urban Evacuation Basics.
Medical Field Triage (Revised Edition).
He stacked the books in his arms until they threatened to spill. A few students nearby giggled behind their manga volumes. He ignored them.
At a table near the emergency exit, he cracked open the first volume. The diagrams were faded, the text dense. He didn't care.
He took notes furiously.
---
The next morning, his fingers ached from writing. His wrists were sore.
At school, he could barely hold his chopsticks. During math class, he drifted off for a moment and the teacher rapped her pointer on his desk.
"Kojima, do you have something more important to do?"
He blinked. "No, ma'am."
The class snickered. He went back to his notes.
In the margins of his textbook, he was sketching a map—emergency exits at his school. Blind corners. Stairwell access.
No one noticed.
---
That night, he lay on his bedroom floor doing sit-ups.
One. Two. Three—pause. Four. Five—
He winced. A sharp twinge shot down his side.
He rolled onto his back, panting.
Pushed too far again.
He stared at the ceiling, sweat trickling into his eyes. The pain made him feel real.
Made him feel like he existed.
He'd spent most of his life trying not to be noticed. Now, he was clawing at the world's edges, hoping to leave a scratch.
---
Keiko poked her head in later that evening.
"Still up?"
Satoru sat upright, wiping his face. "Just stretching."
She walked in, holding a rice ball. "Eat this before you pass out."
He took it with a grateful nod.
She didn't leave immediately. Her eyes drifted to the opened hero book on his desk.
"Are you… studying to become one?" she asked, voice light but not mocking.
Satoru hesitated. "Trying to figure it out."
She nodded slowly, then patted his head. "Don't forget to sleep. Even heroes need rest."
He smiled faintly. "Got it."
When she left, he whispered, "I'm not a hero yet."
---
On Sunday, he helped at the shop again. A crate of soil slipped, crushing his thumb beneath the weight. He didn't scream—just gritted his teeth.
Later, in the staff room, he unwrapped a roll of gauze and clumsily bandaged his hand. His mom scolded him for being reckless, but he just nodded.
When no one was looking, he used the injury to practice a one-handed tourniquet from one of the rescue books.
He wasn't just training his body anymore.
He was preparing.
---
Back in his room, he taped up the walls with crude blueprints:
Fire escape routes from the shop.
Local hospital access.
Bicycle routes with least foot traffic.
Each sheet of paper was filled with scribbles, arrows, contingency notes. One corner of the room looked like a conspiracy theorist's workspace.
To Satoru, it looked like hope.
One of the papers had a quote in black marker:
> "A real hero plans for failure. Because people can't afford for them to fail."
---
That night, after lights out, he opened a new page in his hero notebook.
> "Date: March 14th Notes: • CPR practice: still awkward—research hand positioning. • Traffic pattern: afternoon rush near the station. Avoid on patrol. • Bruise from crate: still swollen. Avoid lifting too fast."
He stared at the page.
Wrote slowly:
> "Not getting better yet. Just not quitting."
Then underlined it.