◇VanPachman◇

The rain had been falling for three hours now—steady, stubborn, almost endless. It trickled down the walls of the old quarter, washed away signs, muffled footsteps, and made the entire city resemble a faded dream.

Genos sat, his metal arms wrapped around himself, staring at a spot near the trash bags. His shoulders were tense, and his golden eyes, usually cold and precise, trembled with something all too human—fatigue. Today, he'd lost. Not even to the enemy, but to himself: he'd failed, he'd failed to protect, he'd failed to understand where he'd gone wrong. It had affected him so much that he'd decided he was trash and was now sitting among the bins.

Nearby, Saitama stood under an umbrella under the awning. He looked at Genos and, with a quiet sigh and a touch of casual laziness, helped Genos up and stood next to him, shielding him from the rain with the umbrella in his hand. Genos merely murmured something that sounded like "Thank you, Sensei." Then he followed his teacher back to the apartment. Along the way, Saitama pulled a bun from the bag and offered half to Genos for support.