The sun over Z-City blazed as usual, but inside Saitama’s apartment, the level of chaos was… astronomical. Forget giant monsters—the real threat was a five-year-old with unstable psychic powers and parents whose personalities clashed like titans.
Saitama was desperately trying to watch a documentary about supermarket sales, but his efforts were constantly interrupted by randomly levitating objects and heated arguments between his wife, Tatsumaki, and their son, Mob.
Tatsumaki, floating a meter off the ground with a trembling teacup in her telekinetic grip, was scolding Mob for trying to use his powers to reach a cookie just out of reach. “Mob Kageyama! How many times have I told you? Control your telekinesis! You almost knocked over your father’s manga shelf!”
Mob, eyes welling up with tears and a blue aura beginning to glow intensely, muttered, “But I just wanted a cookie…”
“A cookie that was two centimeters from your hand!” Tatsumaki snapped, her voice dangerously rising. “You need to learn self-sufficiency!”
Saitama sighed, grabbed the cookie, and handed it to his son. “Here you go, Mob. No drama.”
Tatsumaki shot him a deadly glare. “You’re not helping, you idiot! He needs to learn control!”
“Oh, come on, Tornado of Terror,” Saitama replied, grabbing another can of soda. “Over a cookie? Chill out. We’ll worry when he starts lifting buildings.”
This was the usual dynamic of the Kageyama-Saitama household: an incredibly strong and absurdly apathetic hero, a dragon-level esper with an explosive temper, and an adorable kid with the potential to level the planet if he got too upset. How did they even end up like this? Well, let’s just say a particularly intense night after a psychic monster fight left more than just rubble behind. Nine months later, Mob showed up—to the surprise (and secret terror) of both parents.
One day, Mob came home from “superpower kindergarten for kids” (Tatsumaki’s idea, which Saitama thought was ridiculous) with a drawing. It was a vibrant, chaotic depiction of the three of them. Saitama had a goofy smile and a halo (unnecessary, in his opinion), Tatsumaki was surrounded by a menacing green aura, and Mob stood in the middle, blue lightning shooting from his hands.
“Look, Dad! Look, Mom!” Mob exclaimed, beaming. “The teacher said my aura’s getting stronger!”
Tatsumaki snatched the drawing with a telekinetic flourish, examining it with a mix of pride and criticism. “The colors are nice, Mob. But your mother’s hair isn’t that spiky. I look like a hedgehog.”
“It’s your charm,” Saitama said absently, turning back to his documentary.
Tatsumaki shot him a glare that could kill. “Charm? Your sense of aesthetics is nonexistent!”
That night, after an epic battle to get Mob to bed (which involved telekinetically reading a picture book and Saitama singing a terribly off-key lullaby), Saitama and Tatsumaki finally had a moment of relative peace in their wrecked living room (the aftermath of a minor disagreement over who would do the dishes).
Tatsumaki hovered near the window, staring at the city lights. Saitama sat on the couch, massaging his temples.
“He has his moments,” Tatsumaki admitted, her voice softer than usual.
“Who, Mob or you?” Saitama joked, earning a glare in return. “Kidding, Tatsumaki. He’s a good kid.”
“He takes after me,” she said, nodding. “The determination, the intelligence…”
“And the tendency to blow things up when upset,” Saitama added, smiling faintly.
Tatsumaki floated toward him, stopping right in front of the couch. “You don’t regret it, do you?”
Saitama looked up, meeting her intense green eyes. He took her hand and gently pulled her down beside him on the couch—a rare occurrence he secretly cherished.
“Regret having you two in my life? Even if it sometimes feels like a hurricane hit this place?” He squeezed her hand. “Not a chance, Tatsumaki. It’s… interesting. And honestly, I kinda like this mess of ours.”
A small smile curved Tatsumaki’s lips. She tilted her head and gave him a quick, surprisingly tender kiss on the cheek.
“You’re an idiot,” she murmured, though there was no real venom behind the words.
Saitama chuckled softly, draping an arm over her shoulders and pulling her closer. “And you’re the most powerful, bossy esper I’ve ever met. But hey, somehow we make it work, don’t we?”
There they were—the strongest hero in the world and the most powerful esper, an unlikely couple bound together by a son whose powers could rival their own. Life was chaotic, the days were noisy, and danger lurked around every corner (sometimes caused by the kid himself). But as Saitama held Tatsumaki close, feeling her warmth at his side, he knew he wouldn’t trade this incredibly disastrous psychic family for anything in the world. After all, even among telekinetic explosions and earth-shattering punches, a strange, genuine kind of love was blooming. And maybe—just maybe—it was the strongest kind of love there was.
