The dust settled, revealing a scene of domestic chaos. Bits of plaster and splintered wood rained down on the precious crab legs. Hitori from the Hero Name Registry Division was huddled under the small table, whimpering. Genos stood in front of Saitama, his arms transformed into cannons, his entire body glowing with defensive energy.
Saitama just looked at the massive new hole in his apartment, then at the floating, angry esper, and then back at the hole. He sighed. It was the deep, weary sigh of a man whose landlord was definitely keeping his security deposit.
"Hey," he said, pointing at the wreckage. "You're paying for that."
Tatsumaki's rage-fueled psychic aura actually wavered for a second. Of all the possible reactions to a sudden, unprovoked S-Class assault—fear, defiance, a counter-attack—being presented with an invoice was not on the list.
"Pay for it?" she shrieked, her voice an octave higher than usual. "I'm the S-Class Rank 2 hero, Tornado of Terror! I don't pay for property damage; I am property damage! I'm here to put you in your place, you bald, B-Class fraud!"
Genos stepped forward, his cannons whirring as they charged. "Threat level against my Sensei detected. Classification: Impudent Gnat. You will cease your hostilities immediately, or I will be forced to incinerate you, Tornado of Terror."
Tatsumaki didn't even spare him a glance. "Shut up, Tin Can." A flicker of green energy shot out and wrapped around Genos. The powerful cyborg, capable of leveling city blocks, was lifted into the air and unceremoniously slammed into the ceiling. He crumpled to the floor, sparking and twitching but otherwise unharmed. Saitama had insisted Genos get upgraded with "anti-Tatsumaki plating" after their last encounter. It seemed to be working. Mostly.
"Now, where were we?" Tatsumaki sneered, turning her attention back to Saitama. "Oh, right. Your 'exam.'"
She raised a hand, and the entire apartment building began to groan and shake. The floor vibrated violently. Cracks spiderwebbed across the remaining walls. Outside, cars in the parking lot began to lift off the ground, wrapped in glowing green halos.
"I don't think you belong in the S-Class," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerously low growl. "You haven't earned it. You cheated your way up, stepping on the credit of real heroes. People like King."
Saitama tilted his head. "I thought you hated King."
"I do!" she snapped. "But at least his power is respectably mysterious! Yours is just… dumb! So, here's the test. You're going to fight me. Right here, right now. If you can even land a single touch on me, I'll admit you're the real deal. If not..." she smiled, a vicious, feral thing. "I'll personally tear up your new license and throw you back in the gutter where you belong."
Hitori, still under the table, peeked out. His brand manager brain was screaming. S-Class infighting! A rookie vs the Tornado! The publicity! The ratings! This is gold! Sheer, destructive gold! He fumbled for his phone to call the HA media division.
Saitama didn't move. He just looked at her, his expression unreadable. He could end this in less than a second. He could just tap her on the forehead and the fight would be over. But that would probably wreck the entire city block. And more importantly, it sounded like a huge hassle. All he wanted was to finish his dinner.
"No thanks," he said.
Tatsumaki froze. "...What?"
"I said, no thanks. I'm busy." He gestured to the sad, debris-covered crab legs on his table. "You're interrupting my meal."
The sheer, absolute dismissal of her challenge was more infuriating than any counter-attack could have been. It wasn't a strategic refusal. It was boredom. He was bored by her. The Tornado of Terror, the woman who could single-handedly repel alien invasions, was being treated like a pesky fly.
Her psychic energy exploded outward in a furious wave. "YOU DON'T GET TO SAY NO TO—"
"Enough."
The new voice was cool, controlled, and utterly unexpected. It came from the gaping hole in the wall.
Fubuki stood there, flanked by two dozen members of the Blizzard Group. They were all in their neat black suits, looking like a professional army that had just shown up to a street brawl. Fubuki herself was a picture of icy composure, her arms crossed, her green eyes narrowed at her older sister.
"That's enough, sister," she said again, her voice steady.
Tatsumaki whirled around, her rage momentarily forgotten, replaced by sheer shock and then a deeper, more familiar annoyance. "Fubuki? What are you doing here with your pathetic fan club? This doesn't concern you. Get lost before you get hurt."
"No," Fubuki said, stepping into the ruined apartment. Her followers fanned out behind her, creating a human barrier. "This has everything to do with me. Saitama is… under my protection."
The statement was absurd on its face. The number one hero of B-Class, protecting a man who could apparently pop void monsters with a casual punch. But Fubuki delivered the line with such conviction that even Tatsumaki was taken aback.
What is her angle? Fubuki's mind was racing, her strategy unfolding in real time. She'd seen Saitama's power firsthand. There was no beating him. So, the only way to get close to that power, to benefit from it, was to position herself as its manager. Its gatekeeper. The only one who "understood" him. And the best way to do that was to protect him from the one thing his punches couldn't fix: the hero world's political nonsense. Starting with her own hurricane of a sister.
"Your protection?" Tatsumaki let out a laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "Don't make me laugh. He doesn't need protection from you or your weakling friends. You're just trying to glom onto his newfound fame, same as always."
"Maybe," Fubuki admitted, her calm demeanor unruffling. "But unlike you, I'm not doing it by tearing his home apart." She gestured around the room. "Is this what S-Class heroes do? Throw tantrums and destroy property when they don't get their way? How very… heroic."
Every word was a perfectly aimed dart, striking right at Tatsumaki's deepest insecurities—her desperate need for control, her pride, her twisted sense of responsibility.
Tatsumaki's psychic aura flared again. "You don't get to lecture me, Fubuki. You're still hiding behind others, just like you always have."
"And you're still pushing everyone away," Fubuki shot back, taking another step forward, her expression a mix of defiance and a flicker of genuine concern. "Stop this, Tats. Before you do something you'll regret. Let the man eat his dinner."
For a tense moment, a silent psychic battle waged between the two sisters. A war of wills fought with glares and repressed emotions. Tatsumaki, with her world-breaking power, against Fubuki, armed with little more than her wits and a deep, painful understanding of her sister's broken psychology.
And in that moment, Fubuki was winning.
Saitama watched the entire exchange with a vague sense of confusion. He wasn't entirely sure what was happening, but it seemed like Fubuki was handling it. That meant less work for him. Which was good.
Genos had rebooted and was now standing again, taking meticulous notes. "Analysis: Fubuki has engaged Tatsumaki in a battle of emotional attrition. By framing the conflict as a matter of decorum and psychological projection, she has effectively disarmed Tatsumaki's primary offensive capabilities. A surprisingly effective strategy."
Tatsumaki finally grit her teeth, her control slipping. The airborne cars outside wobbled and dropped back to the asphalt with a series of loud crunches. She couldn't do it. She couldn't unleash her full power here, not with Fubuki standing in the way, looking at her with that look—the one that made her feel like a monster.
"Fine," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Have your pet project. But this isn't over." Her eyes shot daggers at Saitama, who had taken the opportunity to pick a piece of drywall off a crab leg. "You. We're not done. I'll be watching you."
With a final, furious glare, she turned and shot out through the hole in the wall, a green comet disappearing into the night sky.
A collective sigh of relief went through the Blizzard Group. Fubuki's shoulders slumped for just a fraction of a second before she regained her composure. She had done it. She'd stared down the Tornado of Terror and won.
She turned to Saitama, a cool, triumphant smile on her face. "See? I told you. You need me. I handle the political fallout, the interpersonal conflicts. The… 'noise.'" She used his own word, her eyes gleaming with strategic satisfaction. "All you have to do is what you do best."
Saitama just looked at her, then at the hole in his wall, then at the table that Hitori was just now crawling out from under. The man's suit was covered in dust and his hair was a mess.
"Okay," Saitama said to Fubuki. "First thing you can handle for me."
Fubuki's smile widened. This was it. Her moment. He was finally going to accept her partnership. "Anything. What is it?"
"The bill for the wall," Saitama said, deadpan. "You can give it to your sister."