"Are you even listening to me, Hibino?" Vice-Captain Hoshina's voice snapped Kafka to attention.
They were on a rooftop overlooking a quarantined zone, a four-block area where a new type of Kaiju—a subterranean, fungus-based lifeform—had taken root. Hoshina was briefing his squad, and Kafka had been staring into space.
"Y-yes, sir!" Kafka stammered. "Fungoid Kaiju. Releases neurotoxic spores when threatened. Weak point is its central taproot, located approximately fifty meters below ground."
Hoshina gave him a sharp, appraising look. "Correct. Your knowledge is, as always, your only redeeming quality. Stay in the rear with the support team. Provide tactical analysis. Do not engage."
Kafka nodded, relieved. Hoshina's "special training" often involved putting him in situations where he would be forced to use just a little too much strength to survive. Being assigned to the back lines was a rare treat.
The squad rappelled down into the eerie, silent streets. The buildings were covered in pulsating, bioluminescent fungi, and the air was thick with a sweet, sickly smell. It was a hazardous environment, but for Hoshina's elite team, it was just another day at the office.
Kafka sat at a mobile command console, watching the team's vitals and relaying information. It was the part of the job he was actually good at, a fusion of his sweeper knowledge and his new cadet training.
"Squad B, be advised," Kafka spoke into his comms. "You're approaching a mature spore-pod cluster. Thermal indicates it's about to rupture. Recommend falling back twenty meters."
His warning came just in time. The squad retreated seconds before a cluster of giant mushrooms exploded, spewing a cloud of shimmering, deadly spores that would have incapacitated them all.
Up on a neighboring rooftop, Soshiro Hoshina listened in, a flicker of something almost like approval in his eyes. His instincts are sharp. He can read a battlefield.
The mission was proceeding smoothly. Almost too smoothly.
Suddenly, a massive tremor shook the entire zone. The ground cracked, and a colossal form erupted from the street in the center of the squad's position. This wasn't one of the fungus Kaiju. This was something else. A new, bio-mechanical horror.
It was vaguely insectoid, with six crab-like legs of hardened chrome and a body of pulsing, organic matter fused with rusted metal. A creation of Kaiju No. 9.
"AMBUSH!" a soldier screamed, before being impaled by one of the creature's sharp, metallic legs.
The squad was thrown into chaos. Their weapons, calibrated for biological targets, sparked uselessly against the creature's metal armor. Hoshina was instantly in motion, a silver blur of motion, his blades striking at the creature's joints, but even he was struggling to find a weak point. This thing was designed to fight them.
Kafka watched in horror from the console. The team was being systematically picked apart. His hands flew across the screen, trying to find an analytical solution, but there was no data on this type of enemy.
He felt the familiar, hot surge of power inside him. He had to do something. He stood up, ready to run, to transform, to throw himself into the suicidal fray.
"I wouldn't," a voice said calmly from behind him.
Kafka spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Saitama was sitting on the edge of the roof, casually munching on a bag of potato chips. He wasn't in his suit, just his "I'm With Stupid" hoodie.
"You're... How did you get here?!" Kafka gasped.
"Walked," Saitama said, offering the bag. "Chip?" Kafka numbly shook his head. "Suit yourself."
Saitama looked down at the battle raging below, at Hoshina's desperate, high-speed assault and the lumbering, unstoppable progress of the bio-mechanical monster. He seemed completely unimpressed.
"So... are you going to...?" Kafka asked, gesturing helplessly at the carnage.
"Nah," Saitama said, crunching on another chip. "Looks like your friends have it... mostly under control. Besides, it's their job, right? I'm off the clock."
Kafka stared at him in disbelief. People were dying down there, and he was snacking. This was the apathy, the terrifying detachment, that the Defense Force command feared.
But as he watched, Kafka realized it wasn't exactly apathy. It was... confidence. An absolute, unshakable certainty that these small-fry soldiers, including the ridiculously fast one, weren't in any real danger in his presence.
Down below, Hoshina was finally forced to retreat, a deep gash in his side. The creature roared in triumph and raised a leg to crush a cornered soldier.
Saitama sighed. It was the sigh of a man whose quiet afternoon was being disturbed.
He didn't stand up. He didn't even stop chewing. He just picked a stray piece of rubble, a small rock the size of his thumb, from the rooftop.
With a lazy flick of his finger, he sent the pebble flying.
zing.
The pebble moved so fast it was invisible. It didn't break the sound barrier; it seemed to ignore its existence entirely.
The rock struck the bio-mechanical Kaiju's main optical sensor. The result was not a simple crack. The sensor, the armor around it, and a significant portion of the Kaiju's head simply... ceased to exist. Vaporized.
The massive creature shuddered, let out a final, confused screech, and collapsed in a heap of dead metal and steaming organic goo.
Silence.
Hoshina, clutching his side, stared at the dead monster, then slowly looked up at the rooftops, his eyes searching.
On the roof, Saitama brushed chip dust from his hands. "There. All done. Can I have some peace and quiet now?"
Kafka's legs gave out, and he sank to the ground, his mind reeling. The sheer, casual omnipotence was something he would never get used to.
"Why...?" Kafka finally managed to ask. "Why do you help?"
Saitama stopped and actually seemed to consider the question for a moment. He looked at Kafka, at his torn cadet uniform, at the exhaustion etched on his face.
"It's a hobby," he said simply. "And... because it's annoying when things get broken. Plus," he looked down at Kafka, "you seem like you're having a really bad time of it. Secret monster, mean boss, lots of shouting... It's kind of miserable."
And there it was. Not pity. Not a sense of duty. It was a simple, profound acknowledgement of shared misery. Saitama might not have to worry about rent or Kaiju guts anymore, but he remembered what it was like to be a nobody, to be broke, to be stressed. He saw his old, miserable, pre-power life reflected in Kafka's desperate struggle.
"Being you looks like a lot of work," Saitama concluded. "Someone's gotta help you out."
In that moment, their strange, unspoken alliance solidified. It wasn't about groceries anymore. Saitama had inadvertently appointed himself as Kafka's guardian angel, his cosmic backup. He saw Kafka not as a monster, not as a hero, but as a kindred spirit in the universal struggle against a world that was just, fundamentally, a pain in the ass.
He was the Monster's Advocate.
Down below, Hoshina finally spotted them, two tiny figures on a rooftop. He saw the anonymous civilian in a hoodie. He saw his own cadet. He saw the impossible outcome of the battle.
He didn't have proof. But he knew. The anomaly had intervened. Again. And again, his strange, impossible cadet was at the center of it all.
Hoshina clutched his wounded side, the physical pain nothing compared to the fresh sting of his own powerlessness. His obsession deepened, twisting into a dark, desperate need for answers. He didn't just need to get stronger. He needed to understand the relationship between the janitor-turned-monster and the bored, chip-eating god. Because he was starting to realize it was the most important relationship in the entire world.