That's wrong, he thought. He understood it in his head. The fist that crushes monsters — there's no way it translates to law or authority. But back then — when Fubuki collapsed covered in blood, when Tatsumaki was taken away — he hadn't been able to do a thing. Saitama stood in the corridor of Z-City General Hospital on a Sunday morning. The cold air, thick with the mingled smells of disinfectant and medicine, seeped deep into his lungs. White walls and white floors. The thin, overcast light filtering through the windows illuminated everything with sterile indifference. Before him, a thick pane of glass. On the other side, Fubuki lay sleeping. Thick bandages were wrapped round and round her, from her left shoulder down to her side. An IV tube pierced her slender arm, and only the electronic beep, beep of the heart monitor marking her pulse with mechanical regularity echoed through the quiet hospital room. Saitama pressed his palm against the glass. Cold. (Was she always this thin?) A woman who was always brimming with confidence, who'd barge into his apartment spouting nonsense about the Fubuki Group and trying to recruit him. But now, she lay on the white sheets like a broken doll. "Tonight is the critical point." Behind him, the attending physician spoke quietly. Saitama didn't turn around. He kept his gaze fixed on Fubuki through the glass, listening to that voice. "The laceration from her left shoulder to her side is deep. She lost a massive amount of blood. We're managing to keep her stable with transfusions, but — if her fever spikes tonight, it will be dangerous." He couldn't offer any reply. He couldn't say a damn thing. The words Fubuki had whispered to her sister just before collapsing last night kept repeating in his head. —You have to tell him properly. Her body being torn apart, and those were the last words she left behind. Saitama clenched his fist. There are things strength alone can't protect. He could easily shatter this cold glass and step inside. But breaking it would be meaningless. Breaking it wouldn't heal her wounds. If anything, causing a commotion would only interfere with Fubuki's treatment. (Is there really nothing I can do?) It was a sensation he'd never felt before. The reality that these fists, possessing invincible strength, were utterly useless. Saitama couldn't move for a long while. ◇ A-City. The Hero Association headquarters building towered, reflecting silver light even under the overcast sky. A fifty-story skyscraper. Everything about this nation's hero system was contained within. Saitama passed through the automatic doors. The first-floor reception floor. Even though it was a holiday, staff members bustled about. A giant monitor covering an entire wall displayed real-time information on monster appearances nationwide. "I've got no business with reception." Ignoring the front counter, Saitama headed straight for the elevator hall. The receptionist shouted something, but he ignored her. He had one objective. To get Tatsumaki back. He boarded the elevator and pressed the close button. Just as the doors were about to shut, a man in a black suit slipped inside. A slender man in his forties, wearing silver-rimmed glasses. A thin smile played on his face. "You're the B-Class hero, Saitama-san, correct?" "Yeah." "We've been expecting you." Standing beside Saitama, the man tapped the thick stack of documents in his hand with a soft thump. The elevator ascended. With each changing number, something heavy piled up in Saitama's chest. The doors opened on the eighteenth floor. A long corridor. Heavy doors, like those of a law firm, lined both sides. The man guided Saitama into one of the rooms. Inside was a conference room. A sterile table and chairs. The Association's regulations hung on the walls in frames. "Please, have a seat." "Don't need to. Just state your business." "In that case." Without losing his smile, the man placed the stack of documents on the table. Then, one by one, he laid them out in orderly fashion. "First: a formal order from Silverfang-sama. The investigation and protective custody regarding the power rampage of S-Class esper Tatsumaki has been approved by unanimous consent of the Association's upper echelon." The next document. "Second: Hero Law, Article 17. A hero who, through a power rampage, causes harm to civilians or fellow heroes may be temporarily detained and subjected to power-suppression measures at the Association's discretion—" The next document. "Third: Obstruction of Justice provisions. Should a third party interfere with an ongoing official investigation, that individual's hero registration will be revoked, and their social credibility will be completely stripped." The man gently held out the final document. "This is not directed at you. It is a consent form regarding the revocation of hero registration for Tatsumaki, the Terrible Tornado, and Fubuki, the Blizzard of Hell. Should you — hypothetically — cause a violent incident here, this document will be executed immediately." Saitama was silent. His right hand trembled, ever so slightly. (I could punch him.) This man, the security guards in the corridor, every last person in this building — he could blow them all away with a single punch. No one could stop him. But. The moment he threw that punch, those two women's lives as heroes would be over. It wouldn't just be losing their registration. Their social credibility would be reduced to zero. If the Hero Association moved in earnest, they would never be able to live normal lives in this country again. "It seems you understand." The man's smile deepened just a little. "There are things a fist alone cannot resolve — you, of all people, should know that best." His fist still clenched, Saitama couldn't move. For the first time in his life, that fist felt heavy. A fist he couldn't throw hung from his arm, burdened with gravity. That alone felt like it would crush his shoulder. "...Fine." How much strength had it taken just to force out those words? Saitama took the documents. And without another word, he left the conference room. ◇ Evening. By the time he returned to the ghost town of Z-City, the sky was thick with clouds, and a cold wind had begun to blow. Room 203 of Green Heights Z. Saitama came home without buying anything. Today was Sunday. Normally, this was the time he'd come back with bags full of sale spoils, thinking about tonight's menu. But his hands held no supermarket bags. Instead, he clutched only the stack of documents he'd received from the Association. Saitama sat down in front of the kotatsu. He leaned against the wall and hugged his knees. The room was dark. He couldn't even bring himself to turn on the light. On the kotatsu, last week's sale flyer still lay there. Pork scraps, 100 grams for 68 zeny. Double points on Thursday. Normally, just seeing that would give him something to look forward to tomorrow. Now, it was just a piece of paper. (If only I had realized sooner.) The same words repeated in his head. Tatsumaki's telepathic waves. That voice that had echoed directly in his mind back then. Help me, it had said. A confession she couldn't voice. She had been screaming all along. Not knowing how to express her feelings, yet desperately trying to convey them to him, and him alone. But he— "I just thought she was some annoying esper." A dry voice spilled into the room. He'd been indifferent. A pain in the ass, not my problem — he'd left it at that. If, back then, he had listened to her voice more seriously. If, back then, he had been able to do something sooner. Maybe Fubuki wouldn't have ended up covered in blood. Maybe Tatsumaki wouldn't have been taken away. Saitama slammed his right fist against the wall. Thud. A crack ran through the concrete. He clenched his trembling hand again and slammed it once more. Thud. Thud. Thud. Again, and again. But punching it changed nothing. These fists could pulverize monsters, yet they couldn't truly break even the wall in front of him. Saitama pressed his forehead against the wall. The cold feel of the concrete. Only that cool, hard sensation was real to him now. Plip. Something fell to the floor. It took him a moment to realize it was his own tear. It didn't matter that a C-Class hero was the strongest. He couldn't protect the one person he cared about. He couldn't save her. Not even allowed to raise his fist, able only to stand by and watch helplessly — for the first time, he felt truly, utterly pathetic. ◇ Late night. A-City, deep beneath the Hero Association headquarters building. This was a top-secret research facility that even regular staff were forbidden from entering. The cold light of fluorescent lamps dimly illuminated the sterile metal corridor. Beyond multiple protective barriers and surveillance cameras, past a thick steel door, lay that room. A small concrete chamber, five meters square. No windows. No bed. Only a metal chair sat in the center. And in that chair, Tatsumaki, the Terrible Tornado, was seated. Thick suppression devices were fitted around both her wrists. Silver metal rings bit tightly into her slender wrists. A similar device was wrapped around her neck, a small lamp blinking red. "...Hah." Tatsumaki let out a small sigh. Her psychic power was completely sealed. The force that had coursed through her body now lay stagnant, heavy as lead, utterly immobile. (This is a first for me.) Ever since she could remember, her power had been a part of her. As natural to use as breathing. But now, she was just a powerless girl. The red light of the surveillance camera stared fixedly at her in the darkness. Tatsumaki was aware of it, but she didn't care. She placed her hands on her knees and gazed at her own fingers. (I had something I wanted to tell you.) Saitama — that idiot, that baldy, the guy who always looked so utterly bored, yet was stronger than anyone. When had it started? At first, she just couldn't stand that there was someone besides herself who was this strong. She didn't want to acknowledge it. But before she knew it, she was always thinking about him. She wanted him to be with her. She wanted to sit beside him and talk about nothing in particular. If she could just be next to him while he lazed around his room, that alone would probably put her at ease. That she, the strongest esper, would cling to a single man like this. "...It's laughable, really." A self-deprecating smile escaped her. But this was her true feeling. There are things that strength alone can't resolve. This emotion, at least, was something even her psychic power couldn't do anything about. Tatsumaki closed her eyes. (I don't know if this will reach you, but—) In the darkness, she wrung out every last bit of her remaining psychic energy. The suppression device interfered, threatening to scatter her thoughts to pieces. Even so, she released her feelings — like a scream, like a prayer. ◇ The same late night. Z-City, Room 203 of Green Heights Z. Saitama was still sitting on the floor in the dark room. His tears had long since dried. He just stared at the wall, unable to think of anything. It was then— A sensation like static ran through the back of his mind. Bzz, bzzt... An unpleasant sound, like TV snow. But from beyond it, he could faintly hear. —...Saitama... Saitama's eyes flew wide open. This voice— —...Come... save me... The voice was trembling. So weak and thin it seemed about to fade away. —...Please... I don't want... to be alone... Along with the voice, a momentary image flooded his mind. A dim room. A cold metal chair. Tatsumaki, hugging her knees and trembling. Tears spilling from her eyes, her lips desperately forming words. "...Tatsumaki." Saitama murmured. Had her voice reached him? From a place 180 kilometers away. Was she still, even now, calling out to him for help?