The height argument lasted through the morning news cycle.
It was not a productive argument in the sense of reaching any resolution, but it was thorough—Saitama had identified the core injustice (Jordan had grown, he had not, the gap between them had moved in the wrong direction) and returned to it from several angles, each one delivered with the flat sincerity of a man who considered this a legitimate grievance. Jordan maintained that the hairstyle had been involuntary, that the height differential was measured in centimeters, and that neither point was relevant to anyone's morning.
From the kitchen, the sound of Genos chopping vegetables resumed at some point and did not stop.
Breakfast materialized as it always did when Genos was involved—complete, nutritionally considered, presented with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had identified a problem (the household needed food) and resolved it without requiring further input from anyone. Heart-shaped sandwiches had appeared on all three plates, which Saitama accepted without comment and Genos had clearly decided was appropriate.
Jordan was on his second one when Genos looked up with the specific expression he wore when recategorizing information.
"You want to meet with the Doctor, Jordan?"
"Something I need his help with," Jordan said. "Research exchange."
Genos considered this for approximately one second. "The Doctor has mentioned several times that he'd like to meet you and Saitama-sensei. If you're going, he'll be glad to receive you." He set down his knife, and a panel on his forearm opened with a soft mechanical sound. An ID card ejected cleanly. "I'll contact him through the encrypted channel before you arrive—he'll know to expect you. The institute's in the outer district of W City."
Jordan took the card. On it, rendered in the clean lines of engraved metalwork, was a small portrait of Genos in chibi proportion—serious expression, core visible, exactly as precise as everything else Genos produced.
"Strict security around the facility," Genos added. "Dr. Kuseno prioritizes his own safety. The card gets you through the perimeter without incident. I apologize for the inconvenience."
"No inconvenience." Jordan pocketed it. "Thanks, Genos."
Saitama had acquired his plate and moved it to the far end of the table at some point during this exchange, out of reach of Jordan's eye line. He was working through his sandwiches with the focused efficiency of a man who had learned to be territorial about breakfast.
"You're not coming with us?" he asked, around a mouthful.
"You have Genos." Jordan looked at Saitama's plate. Saitama picked it up and held it at chest height. "I have other things to do this morning. You'll be fine."
"I know we'll be fine." Saitama stuffed the remaining sandwich in his mouth in one motion, cheeks puffed. Then swallowed. Nodded. "Alright. Get busy."
They parted ways at the street—Saitama and Genos heading toward the Hero Association assessment facility, lightly equipped and entirely unimpressed by the gravity of the occasion, at least in outward appearance. Jordan watched them go for a moment, then took out his phone, made a call, and pressed two fingers to his forehead.
The Z-City Hero Association branch occupied the same building it always had—professional, well-lit, the kind of architecture that communicated this organization has resources and would like you to know it. The receptionist recognized Jordan the moment he came through the door, and then took an additional beat to process the new hair color, the slightly different proportions, the ambient quality that was difficult to name and impossible to ignore.
"Super Cop!" She recovered smoothly, the warmth in her greeting genuine. "Minister Lanny's already been notified. Please come through—she'll be down to the VIP lounge in just a moment."
Jordan paused mid-step. "Minister?"
"Yes." The receptionist led him down the corridor, clearly pleased to be the one delivering the news. "Transfer order came through from headquarters yesterday. Miss Lanny is now head of the Operations Department here at the Z-City branch."
She pushed open the lounge door, poured coffee with the efficiency of someone who had done it many times, and left him to the room's comfortable silence.
A few minutes later, the sound of heels arrived—purposeful, rhythmic, the pace of someone who moves through a building like they own the square footage. The door opened to admit Lanny and the two assistants who had given up trying to match her stride and were following at a slight jog.
The burgundy glasses caught the light. The folder under her arm was thick. She was already looking at him when she entered, and the professional composure held exactly as long as it took her to fully register the blond hair and green eyes—then she stopped walking, just briefly, the expression of a woman recalibrating a data point in real time.
He's—
How is he—
She completed the sentence internally without finishing either option, arranged her face, and crossed the room.
"Good morning, Lord Evans." She extended her hand with the ease of someone who had decided to simply proceed. "Congratulations seem to be going in both directions today."
"I heard about the promotion after I'd already walked in," Jordan said, shaking hands and gesturing toward the sofa. "Otherwise I'd have brought something."
"Your endorsement of my work is the only gift that matters professionally," she said, which was both a diplomatic truth and a way of closing the topic efficiently. They sat. She set the folder on the low table between them and folded her hands. "You asked for a blank recommendation form. I'm curious who you have in mind." Her eyes were doing the calculation behind the professional composure. "You said the signature field should accommodate at least five names."
"Five S-Class endorsements," Jordan confirmed. "Joint submission."
She absorbed this without visible reaction. Then: "And the candidate's combat strength?"
Jordan looked at her steadily. "Pure fighting ability—comparable to mine."
The composure held for approximately one second after that.
"Comparable—" The word came out at a slightly different register than the others, and she stopped herself, adjusted, and tried again. "That's—you're serious."
"I'm serious."
"Five S-Class heroes are jointly recommending someone comparable to you." She was processing in the way she always processed: fast, systematic, building toward the practical question. "Who is this person? Is he local? Could I see—"
"He's from this area, yes." Jordan had his phone out. He scrolled for a moment—then found it and turned the screen toward her.
Lanny leaned in.
The photo showed a man sitting on a cushion in what appeared to be a fairly modest apartment. He was scratching the back of his head with the expression of someone who had been asked to hold still for a photograph and had immediately forgotten the request. Simple features, wide eyes, a pleasant if unassuming face. His hair was—well. Present, but not abundantly.
She looked at the photo for several seconds.
Then she looked at Jordan.
"He does have some hair loss," Jordan said, with the tone of a man getting ahead of the obvious. "He's younger than the photo suggests. It's a condition, not an age indicator." He looked at the image again, weighing it honestly. "I keep meaning to ask him whether shaving it all off would actually improve things."
Lanny's expression was the expression of a woman who has spent her career identifying exceptional talent and has now encountered a genuine professional challenge.
"Minor cosmetic issue," Jordan continued. "Completely irrelevant to his capabilities. I have to go collect the other signatures now—I'll have the form back to you by end of week."
He pressed his fingers to his brow.
"Please take care—"
He was already gone. The displaced air of his departure moved Lanny's hair slightly. She sat in the VIP lounge with Saitama's photo on the phone screen still visible from where Jordan had left it and the blank recommendation form in her folder and the knowledge that she was going to have to find a way to present this to headquarters.
She had recruited some genuinely remarkable people in her career.
The next few days, she suspected, were going to test the limits of what she could advocate for with a straight face.
Flowing Water Dojo.
The path outside the building was quiet in the morning—the kind of quiet that a serious training facility generates, the background hum of effort and discipline rather than noise. Bang emerged from the gate in his black training clothes, moving at the unhurried pace of a man who had already done his morning practice and was now on to something else entirely.
A few meters behind him, Garou followed with the expression of someone who had not been given a vote on this particular outing.
Jordan appeared in the path in front of them without preamble.
Bang stopped walking. He looked at Jordan the way a man looks at something that has arrived before he expected it to. His gaze took in the gold hair—held on it for a moment—and he said, with the measured tone of someone deciding not to ask too many questions at once: "You left something behind? And your hair—"
"Just dye." Jordan waved it off. "Good morning, Master Bang. I had some free time and decided to try a new look." He produced a document from his coat and held it out. "I need your signature on something."
Bang accepted the form, adjusted it to reading distance, and scanned the first paragraph. His expression did not change dramatically—Bang's expressions generally didn't—but something in his posture settled into the quality of attention he gave things he considered significant.
He looked up at Jordan over the paper.
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