Chapter 1: Broken God at Her Feet
The rain was a fine, cold mist that beaded on his bare scalp. Saitama stood on the cracked cobblestones, looking at the neon smear of a ruined city. It was Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. The days bled together when nothing could hurt you, and nothing mattered.
A sigh escaped him, a small cloud in the damp air. He’d crushed a meteor. He’d punched a guy who claimed to be a god. He’d done his grocery shopping. The thrill, that electric jolt of facing something unknown, had dissolved into a distant memory. His life was a flatline.
A sound cut through the drip-drip of water—a crack, sharp and final, like stone splitting. Then laughter, honeyed and cruel, weaving through the skeletal ruins.
Curiosity, a ghost of a feeling, stirred. He followed it.
Around a corner where a shattered billboard leaned like a drunkard, he found her. Do-S. She was a silhouette against the dying neon, all coiled potential. Her outfit was a statement in black leather and calculated exposure. In her hand, a whip wasn’t just a weapon; it was an extension of her, resting loose against her thigh.
“Well?” her voice was a purr that vibrated in the hollow space. “Are you lost, little man?”
Saitama just stared. Her energy was different. Not a physical threat—he could sense that immediately. She posed zero challenge to his body. But there was a charge in the air around her, a dominance that didn’t rely on brute strength. It was… novel.
“I’m bored,” he said, the truth simple and stark.
Her laugh trilled out again. “Aren’t we all?” She took a step, her boots clicking on the stone. “But I have a cure for that.” Her eyes, luminous and predatory, scanned him. No recognition, no fear. Just a blank canvas. She liked that.
“What’s the cure?”
“Submission,” she said, as if offering him a cup of tea. “The relief of letting go. Of letting someone else… decide.”
The part of him that was eternally underwhelmed, that yawned in the face of universe-enders, perked up. Letting go? He never had to let go of anything. Things just broke. He had no decisions because none were ever hard. What would it feel like to not be the one in charge, even for a moment?
“Okay,” he said.
The word hung in the air. Do-S’s smirk widened, a slash of red in the gloom. She hadn’t even used her power yet. This was too easy, and therefore, interesting.
“Kneel,” she commanded, not a request.
Saitama looked at the wet, grimy cobblestones. He thought about his cheap sweatpants. With a small shrug, he went down on one knee. The physical act was nothing. The intention behind it was… strange. Foreign.
“Both knees,” she amended, her voice dropping an octave.
He complied. The damp seeped through the fabric. He was just kneeling in an alley. It was objectively silly.
Then her fingers were under his chin, cold leather tilting his face up. Her thumb traced the line of his jaw. Her gaze was analytical, fascinated. “No resistance at all. You’re like a hollow doll.” She leaned closer, her scent all perfume and ozone. “Let’s see if we can fill you up.”
The whip moved faster than any human could react. But to Saitama, it was a slow, sinuous ribbon cutting through the air. He watched it come, not moving a muscle. It didn’t strike him. It coiled around his throat, a possessive, cool weight.
“This is my touch,” Do-S whispered. “My will. You feel it, don’t you?”
And he did. Not as a constraint—the leather was nothing against his skin. But as a presence. A claim. For the first time in years, something was asserting itself upon him. His breath hitched, not from pain, but from the sheer novelty of it.
“Good,” she murmured, sensing the minute change. She gave the whip a gentle, tugging pull.
He let her guide him forward, shuffling on his knees across the rough stone. She stepped back, leaning against the damp brick wall, and his face came to rest against the smooth leather covering her thigh. He was kneeling between her legs, his world narrowed to the smell of her, the heat of her body, the soft pressure of the whip tightening just a fraction around his neck.
Her free hand settled on the crown of his head, not petting, but possessing. “See? No thinking. No worrying about being the strongest. Just… being mine.”
A deep, unexpected shiver ran through him. It wasn’t fear. It was relief. The colossal, crushing weight of his own limitless power, the endless, flat horizon of his existence—it all seemed to drain away, siphoned out by the simple pressure of her thigh against his cheek and the loop around his throat. Her dominion was a tiny, precise box, and inside it, he didn’t have to be a monster of capability. He could just… obey.
Do-S looked down at the bald head bowed before her, at the utterly pliant form of a man who should, by all rights, be untouchable. A thrill, sharp and intoxicating, shot through her. This wasn’t mind control. This was voluntary. He had walked into this cage and locked the door himself. Her laughter spilled out, rich and mocking.
“You’re perfect,” she said, her voice giddy with dark delight. “A god, brought to heel by his own emptiness.” She tugged the whip again, a little sharper. “You’d do anything for me now, wouldn’t you? Just to keep feeling this.”
Saitama’s eyes were closed. The gray monotony of his life had been replaced by a vivid, all-consuming spectrum: the bite of the leather, the sound of her voice, the absolute clarity of purpose. Her words weren’t a question, but he nodded against her leg, a small, desperate movement.
Yes.
Anything.
The concept of the world outside this alley, outside her command, began to blur. His strength, that dull, implacable fact, was no longer his. It was a tool in her hand. A weapon she could aim.
Do-S smiled, a victor’s smile. She stared out over the ruin of the city, her gaze sweeping across the broken skyline. With this… creature at her feet, this ultimate power so willingly enslaved, those ruins weren’t an end. They were a blank slate.
“Such a good toy,” she whispered, her fingers threading through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Tomorrow, we’ll start playing for real.”