Sweet Mask stood in front of his bathroom mirror. The steam from the shower clung to the glass, but he wiped it away with a frantic hand.
His reflection stared back. Perfect jawline. Piercing eyes. Silky hair.
And a crack.
Right down the center of his forehead, a tiny fissure had appeared in his skin. Not a wrinkle. A crack in the porcelain mask he wore over his true self.
"Be perfect," he hissed at the mirror. "You have to be perfect. The world needs beauty. The world needs *justice*."
He punched the glass. It didn't break. His hand bounced off.
"Damn him," Sweet Mask growled, sinking to the floor. "Damn Saitama. He's ugly. He's plain. He's a joke. But his justice... it's pure."
He felt the monster cells beneath his skin writhe. The envy was feeding them. His true form—the ugly, invincible brute—was trying to tear its way out.
His phone buzzed. It was an alert from the Hero Association.
**EVENT: RANK 1 COMMEMORATION CONCERT. PERFORMER: AMAI MASK. ATTENDEES: SAITAMA, S-CLASS.**
Sweet Mask stared at the message. A concert *for* the bald fraud. To sing his praises.
He started to laugh. A choked, hideous sound.
"Fine," Sweet Mask stood up. His eyes flashed red for a second. "I'll sing. And I'll show them what happens when you peel away the mask."
***
The Tokyo Dome was sold out. 55,000 people screaming for Amai Mask. But the front row—the VIP section—was reserved for the Apex Coalition (Saitama's team).
Saitama sat in a plush velvet chair, eating popcorn. He was wearing his tuxedo again (at Fubuki's insistence).
"Why is it so loud?" Saitama yelled over the roaring crowd.
"It's a concert, Sensei!" Genos replied, clapping politely on the beat. "Acoustic volume is necessary for optimal hype!"
Fubuki sat next to Saitama, checking the security perimeter on her tablet. "Security is tight. But Sweet Mask insisted on handling his own stage production. No vetting."
The lights dimmed.
Spotlights hit center stage.
Sweet Mask rose from the floor on a hydraulic lift. He wore a shimmering white suit. The crowd went feral.
He grabbed the mic.
"This song..." he whispered breathlessly. "Is for the man of the hour. The new Symbol."
He pointed at Saitama.
"This is titled... *False Idol*."
The music started. It wasn't pop. It was heavy, dissonant rock. The bass shook the floorboards.
Sweet Mask began to sing. But as he sang, he began to change.
His shirt ripped. Not for show. His muscles were expanding, tearing the fabric. His skin turned a mottled, bruised purple. His teeth grew into fangs.
The crowd thought it was special effects. They cheered louder.
"LOOK AT HIM!" Sweet Mask roared, pointing a clawed finger at Saitama. "HE IS EMPTY! HE IS BLAND! BUT YOU LOVE HIM!"
Saitama stopped chewing popcorn. "Is this part of the show? He looks kind of... monstrous."
"Scans indicate biologic instability," Genos stood up, alarms flashing in his HUD. "Threat level rising rapidly! Wolf... Tiger... Demon..."
On stage, Sweet Mask grew to eight feet tall. His beautiful face cracked open like an eggshell, revealing a pulsating, vein-covered visage underneath.
**TRUE FORM: UGLY AMAl MASK.**
"I WILL SHOW YOU REAL JUSTICE!" the monster screamed. "JUSTICE IS BEAUTIFUL! AND BEAUTY IS POWER!"
He leaped from the stage.
He landed in the VIP section, smashing the table. S-Class heroes scattered.
Fubuki threw up a barrier, but Sweet Mask shattered it with a backhand, sending her flying into the stands.
"FUBUKI!" Saitama stood up. He dropped the popcorn.
Sweet Mask turned to Saitama. He was crying. Hideous, monster tears.
"Fight me!" Sweet Mask begged, winding up a punch that could level a skyscraper. "Expose me! Kill me! If you are the true hero... put down the monster!"
This wasn't an attack. It was a suicide attempt.
Saitama looked at the fist coming toward his face. He looked at the monster crying behind the rage.
Saitama didn't punch.
He caught the fist.
*Wham.*
The impact created a crater in the floor, but Saitama didn't budge. He held the massive, purple fist in his palm.
"Hey," Saitama said. His voice was calm. It cut through the music and the screaming crowd.
"You're ruining the concert."
"I AM A MONSTER!" Sweet Mask shrieked. "KILL ME! DO IT!"
"Nah," Saitama said.
He let go of the fist.
He reached up. And he slapped Sweet Mask.
Not hard. Not soft. Just... firm.
*SLAP.*
Sweet Mask blinked. The rage faltered.
"Why?" the monster whispered. "I attacked you. I'm ugly. I'm evil."
"You're a human," Saitama said. "You're just... having a bad hair day."
He poked the monster in the chest.
"Besides, your song was terrible. Too much screaming. Work on the lyrics."
Sweet Mask trembled. The absolute rejection of his monstrosity—the refusal to see him as a threat—broke him. The adrenaline faded. The monster cells receded.
He shrank. The purple skin flaked off. He fell to his knees, human again, weeping into his torn suit.
The crowd was silent. They thought it was a skit. A performance piece about inner demons.
Then, one person started clapping.
King.
"Bravo!" King shouted, sweating buckets but understanding his role. "What a performance! The struggle of the ego! Brilliant!"
The crowd hesitated. Then erupted. "ENCORE! ENCORE!"
Sweet Mask looked up at the cheering thousands. Then he looked at Saitama, who was dusting popcorn off his tuxedo.
"You..." Sweet Mask whispered. "You saved me. By humiliating me."
"I just wanted the noise to stop," Saitama said. He picked up Fubuki, who was rubbing her head. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," she grumbled. "But that maniac owes me a new dress."
Saitama looked back at Sweet Mask.
"Next time, sing something catchy. Like an anime opening."
Saitama walked away, carrying Fubuki out of the dome.
Genos stood by the weeping pop star.
"Sensei's criticism is valid," Genos noted, closing his notebook. "Your chord progression was derivative."
***
Later that night.
The team gathered at the apartment. It was quieter than usual.
"Sweet Mask turned himself in," Child Emperor reported from his laptop. "He's in custody at the HA holding cell. He confessed everything. His monster nature. His kills."
"He'll be locked away forever," Darkshine said sadly. "He was a jerk. But... he was one of us."
Saitama was eating a banana on the balcony. He looked at the city lights.
"He stopped himself," Saitama said. "He asked to be stopped. That counts for something."
Fubuki joined him outside. She wrapped her own coat around herself against the chill.
"You changed the narrative," she said. "If you had punched him... he would have died a monster. By sparing him... he gets to live as a human. A criminal, maybe. But a human."
"Punching solves problems," Saitama tossed the banana peel into the trash. "But sometimes... just listening works too."
He looked at Fubuki. The moon—the cracked, broken moon—hung above them.
"So," Saitama asked. "About that tax lesson."
Fubuki laughed. She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Tomorrow, Saitama. Tomorrow we do taxes. Tonight... let's just look at the moon."
"Okay," Saitama agreed.
He put his arm around her. awkwardly at first, then settling in.
"But seriously," he added after a minute. "The moon looks like a butt."
"Saitama!"
"It does! Look at the crack!"
Their laughter drifted over the sleeping city.