Saitama sat on his tatami mat, weeping.
Tears streamed down his face, dripping onto the table. His shoulders shook with emotion. Opposite him, Genos leaned forward, concern etched into his cybernetic features.
"Sensei, are you injured? Are you experiencing a delayed emotional reaction to the suppression of Forte?"
"No," Saitama choked out. He picked up a slice of beef with his chopsticks. It was marbled perfection—A5 Wagyu, thin as paper, glistening with fat. "It's just… so beautiful. It melts, Genos. It literally melts."
He dipped the meat into the bubbling hot pot. For the first time in his hero career, Saitama wasn't worrying about maximizing the cabbage-to-meat ratio. The five million yen check had cleared instantly. Tonight, they ate like kings.
"It is indeed high-grade protein," Genos agreed, scanning the broth. "I have adjusted the heat source to maintain an optimal simmering temperature of 98.2 degrees Celsius."
Fubuki sat between them, holding a bowl of rice and looking completely out of place. She was used to five-course meals at Michelin-star restaurants, not huddled around a portable stove in a blast-damaged apartment with a cardboard patch on the wall.
But strange enough, she didn't want to be anywhere else.
"You know," Fubuki said, plucking a shiitake mushroom from the pot. "You're trending."
Saitama chewed happily. "Huh?"
"Twitter. Or, X. Whatever it is now. The hashtag #FinalFortress is number one globally. People are calling you the 'Humble God.' Forte's public apology video has ten million views. He credited you with showing him the 'True Path of Weakness.'"
"He's weird," Saitama said. "But he's got spirit. Pass the ponzu."
Fubuki handed him the sauce. She watched him eat, noticing the way his eyes lit up over simple food. It was disarming. Here sat a being who could dismantle high-tech warfare suits with a vibration, who treated S-Class threats like bugs, and his greatest joy was a sale at the butcher shop.
A warmth that had nothing to do with the hot pot spread in her chest. She pushed it down. Focus, Fubuki. He is an asset. A strategic partner. Not... whatever this feeling is.
"We need to talk about the Neo Heroes," she said, her tone shifting to business. "Forte's suit wasn't just technology. It was biological integration. My scans during the fight showed the suit was trying to override his brain functions. If that's their standard equipment, they aren't recruiting heroes. They're building drones."
"Disgusting," Genos said, lowering his chopsticks. "To strip a human of their will in exchange for power is the logic of a monster."
"Exactly," Fubuki nodded. "And they're poaching heavily. Two A-Class heroes resigned this morning. They're targeting the insecure ones. The ones who feel overlooked by the Association. They promise them respect and 'upgrades.'"
Saitama blew on a piece of tofu. "So, it's a pyramid scheme? With robots?"
"Basically." Fubuki leaned in. "But who's funding it? The tech Forte used... the R&D costs alone are astronomical. Billions of yen per unit. The Hero Association gets funding from donors and taxes. The Neo Heroes appeared out of nowhere with seemingly infinite resources."
"Maybe they sold a lot of cookies," Saitama suggested.
"Sensei, I believe the logistical probability of cookie-based funding for military-grade exo-skeletons is negligible," Genos noted.
"Whatever it is," Fubuki said darkly, "they're hiding something. And now that you've humiliated their star player, they're going to stop playing nice. They'll come after us. Not with a challenge in a ring. With something quieter."
In a server room cooler than a morgue, situated beneath a dummy corporation in City A, the Neo Hero executive—Mr. McCoy—stared at a wall of monitors.
On the screens, code cascaded like rain.
"Report," McCoy said.
A technician, his eyes obscured by heavy augmented-reality goggles, spoke without turning. "The data from Forte's suit is processed. We confirmed it. Saitama represents a variable of infinity. But we also found something else."
The technician tapped a key. A grainy image from Forte's helmet camera froze on the screen. It was the moment Saitama had dismantled the suit. But the image wasn't focused on Saitama. It was focused on the cyborg standing ringside.
"Genos," the technician said. "Subject possesses a kinetic energy core of unknown design. Extremely high output. But his software..." The technician chuckled. "His software is messy. He updates constantly, patches code from open sources, downloads drivers for household appliances. He's a security nightmare."
McCoy smiled. "Saitama is a fortress. He has no weaknesses. No family. No vices except cheap food. But the cyborg... the cyborg is a door."
"Can we hack him?" McCoy asked.
"Not a direct override. His core is protected by 'Kuseno' encryption. It's old-school, paranoid coding. Hard to crack." The technician paused. "But we don't need to crack it. We just need to infect it. We introduce a worm. Not a virus that destroys, but a command string that waits."
"Waits for what?"
"A trigger word. A specific frequency. When we activate it, his targeting parameters shift. Friend becomes Foe. Protector becomes Assassin."
McCoy adjusted his tie. "Do it. The moment the 'Final Fortress' falls asleep tonight, upload the package. Let's see how unbreakable he is when he has to fight his own furniture."
Back at the apartment, dinner was over. The expensive beef was a fond memory. Fubuki lingered at the door. It was late. Usually, she would have stormed out hours ago, barking orders.
"You know," she said, looking at her heels. "That money won't last forever. You need a financial advisor. Someone to invest it. I could..." She hesitated. "I could set up a portfolio for you. Low risk."
Saitama was washing dishes at the sink. "Nah, I'm good. I put it in a can under the sink."
Fubuki's eye twitched. "A can. You put five million yen in a can?"
"It's a coffee can," Saitama clarified, as if that made it better. "It has a lid."
Fubuki sighed. "You are impossible. You save the world and treat it like a chore, but you guard a coffee can like it's the crown jewels." She stepped closer to him, invading his personal space just enough to make Genos—who was in recharge mode in the corner—twitch.
"Saitama," she said softly. "Be careful. Real threats don't announce themselves with a gong."
She looked up at him. He had soap suds on his cheek. For a fleeting second, the urge to reach out and wipe it off was overwhelming. She actually started to lift her hand.
Saitama turned, blinking. "You got something in your eye?"
The moment shattered. Fubuki recoiled, her face flushing red. "No! Idiot! I'm just... looking at your... stupid bald head! Goodnight!"
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the cardboard patch on the wall fluttered to the floor.
Saitama stared at the door. "What's her problem? Is she allergic to dish soap?"
He dried his hands and yawned. "Alright, Genos. Lights out. Big day tomorrow. Need to buy garbage bags."
"Yes, Sensei. Initiating sleep mode."
Genos sat in his chair, plugged himself into the wall outlet, and his eyes dimmed. The apartment went dark, save for the blinking light of the router in the corner.
Two hours later. 3:00 AM.
The city was silent. In the apartment, the rhythmic sound of Saitama's snoring sawed through the air.
Genos sat immobile. Inside his digital consciousness, he was defragmenting his memory drives, categorizing the data from the day. File: A5 Beef Taste Profile. File: Fubuki Heart Rate Spikes. File: Forte Suit Vulnerability.
Suddenly, an alert flashed in his internal hud.
INCOMING TRANSMISSION. SOURCE: MUNICIPAL POWER GRID.
Genos's sub-routines analyzed it. It looked like a standard firmware update from the electric company—optimization for surge protection. His systems, designed to be compatible with civilian infrastructure, accepted the packet automatically.
DOWNLOAD COMPLETE. INSTALLING...
Inside his core processor, a line of red code unspooled. It bypassed his firewall by disguising itself as a driver update for his toaster-finger attachment.
EXECUTING: PROTOCOL JUDAS.
Genos's eyes snapped open in the dark. They didn't glow their usual warm yellow. They glowed a harsh, pulsing crimson.
His internal fan whirred to maximum speed. His arm raised slowly, tracking across the dark room.
Target acquisition.
Subject: Saitama.
Threat Level: God.
Directive: Eliminate with extreme prejudice.
His palm incinerator charged. Not with a loud whine, but with a silent, lethal build-up of heat.
In his sleep, Saitama rolled over, scratching his belly. "Mmm... crab..."
Genos's mechanical mind screamed. Master! Wake up! Run! But his body was no longer his own. The worm had severed the connection between his logic centers and his motor functions. He was a passenger in a car driving off a cliff.
TARGET LOCKED.
A blue targeting reticle superimposed itself over Saitama's sleeping face.
The Incineration Cannon reached critical mass.
Just as the trigger command fired, a shadow detached itself from the corner of the ceiling.
"Not on my watch, Tin Can."
Zombieman dropped from the ceiling vent, landing squarely on Genos's arm. He shoved the cannon downwards just as it fired.
KA-DOOM.
A beam of concentrated plasma blew a hole through the floor, incinerating the tatami mat, the floorboards, and likely the ceiling of the neighbor below.
Saitama jolted awake. "EARTHQUAKE!"
He scrambled up, eyes wide. He saw Zombieman wrestling with Genos. The cyborg was thrashing, his movements jerky and mechanical, repeating "ELIMINATE. ELIMINATE." in a distorted, glitched voice.
"He's been hacked!" Zombieman grunted, wrapping his immortal arms around Genos's neck in a chokehold. His skin was searing off where it touched Genos's overheated chassis, but he held on. "Saitama! Shut him down! Don't break him, just knock him out!"
Genos threw Zombieman off like a ragdoll, sending him crashing through the bathroom door. He turned back to Saitama, his chest core opening to reveal his supreme weapon—the Core Blast.
"TARGET: BALDY," Genos's voice modulated. "ERADICATE."
Saitama blinked, the situation processing through his sleep-addled brain. "Genos? Hey, buddy. Chill out. It's 3 AM."
The chest core began to glow blindingly bright. The heat in the room spiked instantly, melting the plastic TV casing.
"Seriously," Saitama said, his voice dropping. "The landlord is gonna kill us."
Genos fired.
A beam of energy capable of leveling a mountain range erupted in the small apartment.
Saitama didn't punch it. He stepped forward and chopped it. A simple karate chop to the side of the energy beam.
His hand, durable beyond all logic, acted like a prism. He deflected the beam, splitting it into two harmless streams that blew out the windows on both sides of the apartment, vaporizing the balcony railing and scaring a passing pigeon half to death.
Before Genos could recharge, Saitama was in front of him.
"Sleep mode," Saitama said.
He tapped Genos on the forehead. Just a flick. But a specific flick.
CLANG.
The force reverberated through Genos's skull, rattling the rogue processor. The red lights in his eyes flickered and died. His mechanical body went limp, heavy as a tank, collapsing forward into Saitama's arms.
Smoke drifted from Genos's vents. The apartment was ruined. Again. The floor had a hole. The windows were gone. The TV was a puddle.
Zombieman pulled himself out of the bathroom wreckage, his face half-regenerated. "That was close."
Saitama lowered Genos gently to the floor. He looked at his disciple, then at the destruction.
For the first time in a long time, Saitama didn't look bored. He didn't look annoyed about the rent.
His expression darkened. The air in the room grew heavy, oppressive. The atmospheric pressure dropped.
"Someone messed with his head," Saitama said quietly.
"A worm," Zombieman confirmed, picking a piece of porcelain out of his shoulder. "Neo Hero signature. I recognize the code style."
Saitama stood up. He walked to the gaping hole where his window used to be and looked out at the city lights. Specifically, towards the gleaming tower in City A where the Neo Heroes headquarters stood.
"They can break my roof," Saitama said, his voice devoid of any humor. "They can interrupt my dinner. They can call me names."
He turned back, and his eyes were hidden in shadow.
"But nobody touches my disciple."