Makoi was not a fool.
This was worth establishing, because his rapid capitulation might have suggested otherwise. He was, in fact, the particular kind of intelligent person who had survived and advanced in a large organization by understanding exactly which battles were worth fighting and which represented the professional equivalent of walking into a wall at speed. He had made a great deal of money in his career. He had resolved several problems for the board of directors that they preferred not to resolve publicly. He had built something.
He was also—and this was the relevant calculation—standing in a video call with a man whose hero name was Super Cop, who had appeared in this building without using any known entrance, and who had just watched Makoi announce he had no objections with the mild patience of someone waiting for a clerk to complete a form.
Don't push this one, Makoi had concluded. This is a loss that costs nothing to absorb.
Jordan gave him one more look—the look of someone who has found the situation marginally less interesting now that it's resolved—and was in the process of moving on when a voice arrived from further down the table.
"Your Excellency 'Super Cop.'"
The speaker was wearing glasses, had the posture of a man who had decided this was his moment, and was looking at Jordan with the righteous energy of someone who has identified the correct position and intends to occupy it publicly. "With respect—hero work is your domain. Personnel management, rank allocation, internal structure—these fall under the Association's administrative authority. It's entirely appropriate that heroes concentrate on heroics and leave organizational decisions to those responsible for them."
He adjusted his glasses after finishing. A small glance, carefully not too obvious, toward Makoi.
Jordan's eyes tracked to him with the interest of someone who has just noticed something worth examining.
"Which department?"
"Finance. Deputy head."
"Hm." Jordan appeared to be retrieving something from memory. "S-Class promotions normally require sign-off from A-Class Chief 'Amai Mask,' don't they? Would that be an administrative matter or a hero matter in your framework?"
The deputy head of finance began to recalculate.
"That's—not exactly—what I—"
He became aware of a presence at his shoulder.
He looked up.
Jordan was there. In City A's conference room. Not on a screen—there, in the room, having covered the distance between two cities at some point between one sentence and the next, the way events sometimes occur when the person causing them has decided that a video call is no longer the optimal format.
In the conference room, someone made a sound. Several people made sounds. Sitch, who had a more complete picture of Jordan's capabilities than most, did not make a sound—he made a small internal note of appreciation and kept his face appropriately neutral.
Jordan was smiling. The smile was the warm kind.
"Look at me for a second," he said to the deputy head of finance. Not aggressively. Pleasantly, even.
Three concentric rings in scarlet, three magatama rotating to black, a depth that pulled—
The deputy head of finance looked.
The meeting room had not experienced silence quite like this before.
The man stood up. He removed his glasses and set them on the table with deliberate care. He bowed. He began to speak in the tone of someone completing a required form—methodical, thorough, showing his work.
"Colleagues. I feel it is important to be transparent. I have misappropriated Association funds for personal use. Specifically: eighty-six million yen directed to Miss Emily at the Midnight Rose, provided as gifts across fourteen separate occasions. A private villa, valued at one hundred twenty-eight million yen, transferred to Miss Milena of Dream Maid Club. Additionally—"
"Stop talking."
Makoi's voice cut across the room with the force of someone who has just watched a situation he thought was improving become significantly worse. His eye was twitching. His expression had completed its journey from managed calm through alarm and arrived at something closer to controlled damage assessment.
He turned to the screen. Put on the smile that had gotten him this far. "Super Cop—this kind of behavior is absolutely unacceptable within the Association. We'll have him detained immediately and—"
"There's no need," Jordan said, with the expression of someone who has been asked to solve a problem they were already solving. "I am, in fact, a police officer. That's not a metaphor."
A beat.
Super Cop, the assembled executives thought, in various registers of belated recognition. As in. An actual. Officer of the law.
Jordan had his phone out. "Property Crime Investigation Division, General Headquarters? Jordan Evans, PCZ9527, Z-City. I have a confession and a suspect requiring transfer. Current location is Hero Association headquarters, City A." He listened. "I'll be at the entrance with the suspect. Thank you."
He pocketed the phone. Placed one hand on the deputy head of finance's shoulder. "The officer managing your case is on the way. If you wouldn't mind—"
The deputy head of finance turned, walked to the nearest wall, lowered himself into a crouch, and placed both hands on the back of his head with the practiced efficiency of someone following a procedure.
The senior executives of the Hero Association looked at this.
Then at Jordan.
Then at Makoi, whose face had the quality of a man who has decided that the most professionally advantageous position available to him in this moment is stillness.
Jordan placed both hands on the conference table, leaned forward slightly, and looked around the room with the pleasant attention of someone who has just finished one item on a list and is moving to the next.
"Saitama's hero rank. The recommendation letter establishes that five S rank heroes—including myself—affirm his capabilities meet S-Class criteria." He paused. "Who agrees?"
Sitch's hand went up immediately, with the uncomplicated energy of a man who has been waiting to do this. "I agree. Several S-Class heroes have vouched directly for his character and ability. That's the relevant standard."
Makoi's hand was in the air before Sitch finished speaking. The speed of it communicated something about how quickly a man can update his assessment of a situation.
Around the table, hands went up. One, then several, then the rest, the motion rippling outward from Sitch and Makoi's lead in the way that institutional consensus moves when the conditions for it have been established.
Jordan nodded, straightened, and turned toward the door.
The deputy head of finance fell in beside him, expressionless, hands still positioned, ready to be walked to the entrance.
The doors closed behind them.
In the meeting room, the assembled senior executives of the Hero Association breathed—individually, quietly, each in their own time.
Makoi said nothing. Several people looked at him and found his expression provided no useful information. They turned back to their documents.
The meeting concluded shortly after.
The Hero Association's administrative apparatus, when pointed in a clear direction, operated with commendable efficiency.
The physical certificates—pre-printed, waiting in branch offices across the country for names and scores and classification letters to be filled in—were processed through the standard workflow. Lanny handled the Z-City paperwork herself, which took less time than the deliberation that had preceded it by a considerable margin.
Fifteen minutes after the video connection terminated, she was presenting a certificate across the control room table.
Saitama took it without putting down his current snack, turned it over once, looked at the large gold-lettered S printed at the center with the formal prominence that such things receive when they are meant to mean something.
"So I'm registered?"
"You are registered," Lanny confirmed, with the expression of a woman who has shepherded a very unusual process to its conclusion and is allowing herself exactly one moment of quiet satisfaction before the next thing begins.
Jordan reappeared in the room—the air adjusting to accommodate him without drama—and looked at the certificate in Saitama's hand.
"Monthly salary starts this month," he said. "Plus per-incident bonuses for anything you resolve at or above Tiger level."
Saitama's eyes went through a brief but visible recalibration.
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