The lie was small.
"I was just out riding," he said.
Keiko had been drying her hair in the hallway, fresh from a late shower, when she asked him where he'd gone the night before. Her tone was light, curious.
Satoru kept his eyes on the floor. "Just needed to clear my head."
She nodded. "Don't stay out too late. Some streets get rough this time of year."
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
---
That morning, the lie sat in his stomach like a swallowed coin—unremarkable from the outside, but heavy all the same.
He carried it through the flower shop, through class, through his training runs.
It wasn't the first time he'd held back the truth.
But it was the first time he'd felt guilty for doing it.
---
He kept replaying the night in his mind.
The way the muggers moved. The speed of the hero's arrival. The sound of the victim gasping after it was over.
And the worst part:
The silence of his own inaction.
He hadn't even tried.
Not a single word.
---
At school, one of his classmates asked about his notebook. "You always scribble like that. You a poet or something?"
Satoru glanced down at the page he'd just written:
> "Emergency response delay: 42 seconds. Civilian trauma check: not observed. Hero Rush Hour—brilliant speed, but lacked follow-up."
He closed the notebook slowly. "Just... notes."
The boy laughed. "Dude, you're weird."
"Guess so."
---
That afternoon, he lingered outside the same alleyway again. This time, in daylight. He traced the chalk outline left behind from the night before.
He timed the walk from the alley to the nearest patrol box: two minutes, thirty-four seconds.
Too long.
He noted it.
---
Back at home, their mom was coughing more.
He brought her warm tea with honey. She gave him a tired smile.
"You take care of everyone, huh?"
Satoru looked down at the cup. "Not really."
"You try. That's more than most."
He nodded but said nothing.
---
That night, Keiko found him adjusting the straps on a padded vest he'd fashioned out of a delivery bag.
"You working on something?" she asked.
He hesitated.
She raised an eyebrow. "That's the same face you made when you lied about breaking mom's teacup in third grade."
He laughed nervously. "It's nothing bad. Just… practice."
"Practice for what?"
"For being useful."
She looked at him for a long moment. Didn't smile.
Then she walked away, muttering, "Just don't get yourself hurt, little brother."
---
The lie grew.
He lied about where he went. He lied about the bruises on his knees. He lied about the tears he didn't shed.
And all the while, his notebook filled with truths no one else knew:
> "Alley patrols are inconsistent. Side streets near 3rd district are black zones. Hero response varies by fame and rank."
One page stood empty for hours before he finally wrote at the top:
> "What does it mean to be a hero if you can't act when it counts?"
Beneath it:
> "Next time… move. Even if you're scared. Even if it's a mistake."
He underlined it three times.
And closed the book.