The silence in Saitama's apartment was a fragile thing, easily broken. Not by monster alerts or explosions—those were just background noise at this point—but by the drip-drip-drip from the kitchen faucet. A sound that, for the past hour, had been methodically chipping away at Saitama's last nerve.
He lay on his futon, staring at a water stain on the ceiling that kind of looked like a grumpy octopus. It had been a week since the Monster Association headquarters was pulverized, Garou had vanished, and the world had narrowly avoided becoming a playground for giant, ugly things. A week of blissful, uninterrupted boredom. It was almost perfect.
Almost.
Drip... drip... drip...
Saitama squeezed his eyes shut. "Hey, Genos. That dripping."
"Yes, Sensei," came the immediate, formal reply from the small kitchen area. Genos was hunched over a new laptop, his fingers a metallic blur across the keyboard. "I have filed a maintenance request. The landlord has noted it with a projected response time of four to six business days."
"That long?" Saitama groaned.
"He expressed some… hesitation," Genos continued, his voice perfectly level. "He cited paragraph 7, sub-section B of our lease agreement, concerning 'Excessive and Catastrophic Structural Wear and Tear.' Apparently, the vibrations from my last sparring session on the roof caused minor cracking in the foundation. He also mentioned something about a 'recurring cyborg-shaped hole in the west-facing wall.'"
Saitama sat up, scratching his bald head. "You gotta use the door, man. That's what it's for."
"My apologies, Sensei. In a combat simulation, one must prioritize efficiency."
"Yeah, well, efficiency's gonna get us evicted." He sighed, letting himself fall back onto the futon with a soft thump. The spoils of saving the world. Nagging landlords and a leaky faucet. Sometimes he wondered if he'd get more respect if he was the one causing the city-wide destruction. Probably get better housing, at least. Villains always had the coolest lairs.
He grabbed his manga from the floor. He'd already read it twice. Nothing new was out yet. The city was still rebuilding, distribution chains were all messed up. Just another annoying consequence nobody thought about when a giant centipede was burrowing through the subway lines.
Knock-knock-knock.
A firm, almost demanding knock on the door. Not the mailman. Not the landlord—he usually just slid passive-aggressive notes under the door.
Genos was on his feet in a microsecond, his arm already transforming into an incineration cannon. His optical sensors glowed a soft blue. "Unknown energy signature detected, Sensei. Approximately 1.2 times the average power level of a B-Class hero. Not hostile, but… cautious."
Saitama didn't look up from his manga. "Could be someone selling fishcakes. Ask them if they have any specials."
Genos approached the door with the fluid silence of a predator, peering through the peephole. His glowing eye widened almost imperceptibly. He straightened up, his cannon retracting back into a normal-looking hand.
"Sensei," he said, turning around. "It is the Class-B, Rank 1 hero. Hellish Blizzard."
Saitama flipped a page. "Fubuki? What's she want? If she's trying to recruit me again, tell her I'm busy."
"I believe her purpose may be different this time," Genos noted, his internal processors analyzing her posture, her expression, the slight tension in her shoulders that wasn't there before. "Her tactical disposition has shifted from coercive to… negotiatory."
"Whatever. Just tell her I'm not home."
The door swung open before Genos could respond.
Fubuki stood there, hands on her hips, her signature black dress hugging her curves. Her short, dark bob was perfect, not a hair out of place despite the afternoon heat. But her eyes—they darted around the tiny apartment, taking in the futon, the small TV, the stack of manga, the water-stained ceiling. They held a new kind of expression when they landed on Saitama. Not just annoyance or frustration. It was… complicated.
"You're home," she stated, ignoring his obvious lie. She walked in, her heels clicking softly on the cheap laminate floor. The two B-class lackeys who usually followed her around were nowhere to be seen. She came alone.
That was new.
Saitama didn't bother getting up. "Yeah, well, I live here. So..." He let the sentence hang. Social interaction was such a pain.
Fubuki surveyed the room with a practiced air of condescension that didn't quite mask her genuine surprise. "This is it? This is where the man who defeated Elder Centipede lives?" Her internal voice was screaming. He stopped a Dragon-level threat that took out Bang, Bomb, and half the S-Class, and he lives in a dump that smells faintly of boiled cabbage. None of this makes any sense. She had to get him to join her. No, not join. Partner with her. It was different now. After everything she'd seen, the world wasn't as simple as ranks and power. There was Saitama. And then there was everyone else.
She cleared her throat, pushing her unease down and letting her cool, commanding persona take over. "Saitama. I have a proposition for you."
"Not interested in any timeshares," he mumbled, still focused on his manga. "Or vacuum cleaners. Or religion."
Her eye twitched. "This is not a sales pitch. This is about your future. And mine."
Genos stood protectively near Saitama, his arms crossed. "My master's future is secure under my strategic management."
Fubuki gave the cyborg a dismissive glance before refocusing on the bald man on the floor. "The Hero Association is in shambles. Public trust is at an all-time low. Half the S-Class is either retired, in the hospital, or missing. This is a time of immense chaos… and immense opportunity."
She took a step closer. Her voice dropped, becoming smoother, more persuasive. It was the voice she used to sway politicians and strong-arm rival heroes. "My group, the Blizzard Bunch, is poised to become a pillar of stability in this new landscape. We provide security, resources, public relations management… and a salary that reflects actual contribution, not just arbitrary rankings."
Saitama scratched his nose. "Huh."
Encouraged, she continued, a spark of passion lighting her eyes. "You have power nobody understands. But you have no infrastructure. No support. You fight world-ending threats and get credited as a cheater while King gets all the glory. That's not just unfair; it's inefficient." She gestured around the apartment again. "It leaves you... here."
"I like it here," Saitama said flatly. "Rent's cheap. Mostly."
"Don't be deliberately obtuse!" she snapped, losing her cool for a second. She took a deep breath, composing herself. "Think of it, Saitama. With me handling the bureaucracy and the public image, and you… doing what you do… we could change everything. We wouldn't just be heroes. We would redefine what heroism is." She leaned in slightly, her green eyes intense. "We could be at the very top. Together."
The room was quiet for a long moment, the only sound that damnable drip... drip... from the faucet.
Saitama finally lowered his manga and looked at her. Really looked at her. Her offer was probably a good one. He got that much. Money, fame, no more paperwork. It was everything most heroes dreamed of. But all he could think about was how much of a hassle it all sounded. Meetings. Hand-shaking. Wearing a uniform, probably. It was a job. And he didn't want another job. He wanted a challenge. And if he couldn't have that, he at least wanted to be left alone to read his manga.
He stared at her with his usual blank expression. He saw her ambition, her desperation, and something else under that. Something that looked a lot like loneliness. He recognized it because he felt it too, sometimes. A big, empty hole that no amount of punching could fill.
"So..." he said slowly. "You're saying if I join your… what's it called again?"
"The Blizzard Group," she said, her hope surging. Was he actually considering it?
"Right. If I join, you'll talk to my landlord about the rent?"
Fubuki's face went completely blank. She had come here with a perfectly crafted proposal to seize control of the hero world's power structure, and he was haggling over his lease. The sheer, breathtaking gap between their priorities made her head spin.
Genos, meanwhile, had finished his analysis. "Sensei, her proposal offers a potential 300% increase in net income, factoring in hazard pay and merchandise rights. However, it also projects a 700% increase in mandatory public appearances and media engagements. The time cost versus benefit analysis is unfavorable."
Saitama nodded sagely. "See? Unfavorable."
Fubuki pressed her fingers to her temple. It was like trying to negotiate with a brick wall. A brick wall that could punch a hole in the planet. "This isn't just about money or rent, you idiot! This is about respect! About purpose!"
"Sounds like a pain," Saitama said, picking his manga back up. It was official. The conversation was over.
She stood there, defeated. Again. Why did she keep doing this? She should just turn around, walk out, and never look back. Find some other powerful asset to absorb into her sphere of influence. That was the smart play. The strategic play.
But as she watched him, so utterly unimpressed by everything she offered, a different feeling surfaced. Not frustration, but a strange sort of admiration. He really didn't care. About rank, fame, or power. He just… was. In a world of desperate climbers and political schemers, he was the only person who was truly free. And he didn't even realize it.
"Fine," she sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Be a fool. Stay in your grimy little apartment and wait for the world to forget you exist. See if I care." The words lacked their usual venom. They just sounded tired.
She turned to leave, but paused at the door. "But for the record," she said, without looking back at him. "The world is changing. Scarier things are coming. Things you can't just punch away. When they do, don't come crying to me for help."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Saitama yawned. He turned his attention to the small TV in the corner, which had been on mute the whole time. A local news report was playing. He clicked the volume up.
"—still no leads on the sudden disappearances in City D's hero community," a reporter said, her face grim. "In the past week, five registered heroes, all C-Class, have vanished without a trace while on patrol. The Hero Association has issued a temporary warning, advising all low-ranked heroes to patrol in pairs until the situation is resolved."
Genos's eyes narrowed. "Five disappearances. A statistically significant anomaly. I am downloading the incident reports now."
"Huh," Saitama said, unimpressed. "Probably just quit. Being a hero's a tough gig."
The report cut to a grainy security camera video showing a dark alleyway. A lone hero, some guy in a cheap-looking beetle costume, stood in a fighting stance. The video quality was awful, flickering and distorted.
"Weird," Saitama mumbled, leaning a little closer to the screen. "Is the camera broken?"
The figure the hero was facing wasn't a monster. It wasn't even clear what it was. It looked like a patch of glitched-out television static in the shape of a person. It flickered and wavered, its form unstable and blurry.
The beetle hero lunged forward, his fists glowing with some weak-looking energy. "Beetle… Smash!" he yelled.
But as his fists got within a foot of the static figure, the glow just… went out. Poof. Like a lightbulb being switched off. The hero's attack, his power, just vanished into thin air. He stumbled forward, confused and powerless.
The video cut out.
"Initial analysis is inconclusive," Genos stated, having already processed the footage. "The phenomenon does not align with any known monster abilities. It's not energy absorption, nullification, or reflection. It appears the target's ability ceased to exist entirely within a localized field."
Saitama just stared at the TV, his bored expression slowly being replaced by a flicker of something else. Confusion? Annoyance? It was hard to tell. He didn't say anything.
Meanwhile, miles away in a rain-slicked alley in City D, another C-Class hero, this one named "Glue Gunner," was backed against a graffiti-covered wall. He held up his specialized weapon, a high-pressure cannon that fired an instantly hardening polymer adhesive.
"Stay back!" he yelled, his voice shaking. "One more step and you'll be stuck to this wall for a month!"
His target stood in the shadows, just out of the streetlight's glow. It was humanoid, but that's all Glue Gunner could make out. A deep, chilling chuckle echoed through the alley, a sound that didn't seem quite physical.
"A month?" the voice purred. It sounded like cracking ice and grinding static. "Your power is a temporary inconvenience. A little spark of defiance in an endless, silent dark."
The shadow took a step forward into the light. It wasn't a man. It wasn't a monster. It was a shifting void, a human-shaped absence in reality, its edges flickering like a dying flame.
Glue Gunner screamed and pulled the trigger. A thick stream of white goo shot from the cannon.
It flew three feet.
Then, it dissolved. Not into liquid. Into nothing. One moment it was there, the next, it was gone. The hero's weapon whined, then sputtered and died, its internal power source utterly drained.
The void creature tilted its head. "There. See? All better."
It glided forward, its form silent and absolute. Glue Gunner dropped his useless cannon and scrambled backwards, pressing himself against the brick wall. His heart hammered against his ribs. He had no power, no weapon, no way out.
The shadowy hand reached for his face.
"Don't worry," the static-filled voice whispered, inches from his ear. "It won't hurt. You'll just… stop."