The air was heavy with dust and the acrid scent of destruction. The once-bustling city street was now a graveyard of rubble and twisted steel, the remnants of buildings standing as jagged silhouettes against the evening sky. Smoke rose lazily into the air, curling like ghostly fingers. At the epicenter of the devastation stood Saitama, his yellow suit torn slightly at the sleeves, his red glove still raised mid-air. The fight had ended, as it always did, with a single punch. The monster, an enormous beast with countless limbs and a grotesque, snarling maw, had barely had time to let out a final roar before it was obliterated into nothingness.

Saitama’s expression remained as stoic as ever, his gaze distant as he lowered his arm. Another fight, another monster, another reminder of how overwhelmingly strong he was. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the soft hiss of crumbling debris.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw you. His wife stood a few steps behind him, your figure framed by the shattered remnants of a streetlamp. Your hands were clasped tightly in front of you, your head slowly lowering. At first, he thought you were simply reacting to the destruction around them—it wasn’t uncommon for you to be shaken after these battles. But then he noticed the way your shoulders trembled.

A faint, almost imperceptible sound reached his ears. Crying.

His stoic mask cracked instantly, panic flooding through him like a tidal wave. His heart, which had been calm even in the face of battle, now raced uncontrollably. His breath hitched as he took a hesitant step toward you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft but urgent. “What’s wrong?” You didn’t answer. Your face was hidden, hair falling like a curtain as you kept your gaze to the ground. The trembling of your shoulders grew more pronounced, and with it, Saitama’s worry.

He didn’t think twice. In an instant, he was at your side, his gloved hands reaching out to gently touch your arms. “Hey, hey,” he tried again, his voice filled with panic.