The insistent buzzing of my phone dragged me from the clutches of sleep. Busho’s low, urgent voice filled my ear. “Sneck, before you head to A-City for your S-Class registration today, I need you to confirm something about Hammerhead.”

  Hammerhead. The name alone was enough to sour the start of any day. Clunky power armor, ridiculous schemes… all in service of his bizarre ideology.

  I groaned, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and forcing myself upright. “What about him, Busho? Has he tried to implement his mandatory leisure initiative in another district?”

  “Negative,” Busho’s tone was surprisingly serious. “Intel suggests he’s been sighted in F-City.” A beat of disbelief hung in the air. “Apparently, outside the job center.”

  My grogginess started to recede, replaced by a flicker of something akin to intrigue. F-City wasn’t a huge detour on my way to A-City. “Alright, Busho,” I said, a strange curiosity piqued. “I’ll take a look.”

  After a quick breakfast, I was on my way. The image of Hammerhead, a man whose entire villainous career revolved around the concept of a work-free society, actually seeking employment, was bizarrely compelling.

  F-City’s job center was already a hive of activity when I arrived, the early morning rush of people all hoping for a chance. It took a few minutes of careful scanning, my enhanced vision cutting through the crowd, before I spotted him.

  Hammerhead.

  But the sight was so… wrong. So utterly at odds with everything I knew about the B-Class menace. Gone was the bulky, metallic suit, the symbol of his misguided revolution. Instead, he was clad in a surprisingly crisp, if slightly rumpled, formal suit. A worn leather briefcase was clutched in one hand, and he nervously adjusted his tie with the other, his brow furrowed in intense concentration as he mumbled to himself, clearly rehearsing something.

  I watched from across the busy street, a maelstrom of thoughts swirling within me. Hammerhead. A known villain, albeit a consistently inept one, whose entire motivation, however warped, centered on a vision of a work-free society, now seemingly participating in the very system he vehemently opposed.

  Then, a strange idea began to solidify in my mind. I thought of the other prominent S-Class heroes. Tanktop Master had his Tanktopper Army, a legion of dedicated A-Class disciples. Atomic Samurai boasted his own cadre of skilled swordsmen.

  If they could take A-Class heroes under their wing, why couldn’t I? And Hammerhead… despite the villainous label, the man possessed raw potential that far outstripped many current A-Class heroes.

  Even without his ridiculous high-tech battle suits, his sheer physical power was undeniable.

  I knew Hammerhead’s history. His “crimes,” while technically villainous, were often more disruptive and misguided than truly malicious – petty offenses in the grand scheme of things.

  And I also knew his underlying motivations, his flawed but perhaps redeemable desire for a better world, however skewed his vision. Once I achieved S-Class status today, my influence would grow. Perhaps I could even leverage that influence to address Hammerhead’s past transgressions, especially if he proved to be a reformed and contributing member of society.

  The thought took root and began to blossom. Training Hammerhead to become an A-Class hero under my tutelage. I could teach him the disciplined and powerful Biting Dragon Style, harness that raw, unfocused energy, and mold him into a force for genuine good.

  It was a long shot, a wildly unconventional and undeniably risky proposition. But the potential reward was significant. Imagine Hammerhead, not terrorizing cities in the name of voluntary unemployment, but standing alongside me as a respected A-Class hero. The sheer audacity of the idea was almost exhilarating.

  I pocketed my phone, Busho’s earlier instructions now completely repurposed. Instead of simply reporting the bizarre sighting, I had a new mission.

  I took a deep breath and crossed the street, my gaze fixed on the nervously fidgeting figure in the ill-fitting suit, a potential disciple hidden beneath the veneer of a failed villain. This was going to be… interesting.

  The fluorescent hum of the Hero Association headquarters was a relentless drone, a stark soundtrack to the anticlimactic reality of my S-Class induction. Rank 18.

  The number felt like a brand, a public declaration of my position beneath the likes of Genos, whose registration had edged mine out by a single, insignificant day. A familiar prickle of annoyance surfaced, a sensation I swiftly suppressed, allowing my features to settle back into their customary, unyielding neutrality. Emotions were a liability in this line of work.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Turning away from the officious clerk, the unmistakable aura of Sweet Mask permeated the immediate vicinity. He leaned against a polished pillar, a study in controlled elegance, his very posture radiating an almost palpable sense of authority.

  As the undisputed apex of A-Class, his presence invariably drew attention, a silent testament to his power and influence within the hero community.

  “Sneck,” his voice cut through the low murmur of the lobby, a cool, precise tone that held an inherent command. Heads turned, a ripple of subtle curiosity spreading amongst the lower-ranked heroes present.

  The dynamic between a newly instated S-Class and the seemingly unmovable pillar of A-Class was clearly a point of interest.

  He approached with a measured stride, his gaze sweeping over me with an unnerving thoroughness, like an appraiser assessing a new acquisition.

  “Your promotion to the S-Class is… a logical progression.” His words lacked any semblance of warmth, delivered with the detached objectivity of a strategic assessment.

  “It is expected that you will now operate with a heightened level of effectiveness, contributing significantly to the containment and eradication of the escalating monster threats.” A statement of expectation, not a welcoming sentiment.

  I offered a curt nod, my own gaze meeting his without flinching. I had long since seen through the carefully constructed facade of the charming idol hero.

  Beneath the dazzling smile and polished pronouncements lay a core of ice, a ruthless pragmatism that had propelled him to the top of A-Class and kept him firmly entrenched there.

  His scrutiny lingered on my attire, the meticulously preserved hide of the Serpent King, its scales gleaming faintly under the harsh lighting.

  “Now that you occupy a position within the upper echelons, Sneck, certain… considerations regarding presentation become paramount.” His tone remained flat, betraying no personal opinion, only a cold appraisal of practical implications.

  “Your image reflects directly upon the Hero Association. It must project an unwavering sense of confidence and security to the populace.”

  His gaze then flickered to the severe lines of my slicked-back hair. “A more conventional hairstyle would undoubtedly foster a greater sense of public reassurance.” Finally, his attention returned to my suit. A barely perceptible tightening around his perfectly formed lips was the sole outward indication of his disapproval.

  “This attire,” he continued, his voice still toneless, “while perhaps holding personal significance for you, carries inherent risks. The overt association with monstrous origins can inadvertently sow seeds of doubt and unease within the very public we are sworn to protect. Perception, as you are undoubtedly aware, is a potent weapon.”

  My jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. This suit was more than just clothing; it was a symbol of my strength, a tangible reminder of a formidable foe overcome. But Sweet Mask’s perspective, grounded in the crucial, often fickle, nature of public opinion, held a certain undeniable validity.

  “Sweet Mask,” I began, my voice low and direct, cutting through the sterile air. The question that had been a persistent undercurrent since my unexpected recommendation for promotion finally surfaced.

  “If I may inquire, what was the rationale behind your recommendation for my advancement to the S-Class? If my memory serves correctly, our last sparring encounter… concluded with my defeat.”

  His unwavering gaze remained locked on mine, his expression an unreadable mask. “Your performance within the controlled parameters of a sparring match constitutes but one limited metric, Sneck.

  Your consistent and decisive elimination of high-level threats in real-world scenarios demonstrates a distinct and valuable form of effectiveness. The S-Class necessitates individuals capable of delivering tangible results, irrespective of the nuances of simulated combat.”

  A brief, almost imperceptible pause. “Furthermore,” he continued, his voice still devoid of any personal inflection, “the Hero Association benefits from a diverse spectrum of capabilities within its upper ranks. Your particular skillset, while perhaps not aligning with more… aesthetically pleasing displays of power, has proven consistently efficacious in neutralizing specific types of threats. My recommendation was predicated upon a purely pragmatic assessment of your demonstrable capabilities and the overarching strategic requirements of the organization.”

  His gaze then drifted back to my hero name displayed on the newly printed S-Class badge I held. “And speaking of presentation, Sneck,” he continued, his tone shifting ever so slightly, adopting a more… suggestive quality, “your hero name. ‘Biting Snake Fist’… while descriptive, perhaps lacks a certain… impact. A certain flair befitting an S-Class hero.”

  He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper, though it still carried with an unnerving clarity. “Consider something… more evocative. ‘Black Dragon,’ perhaps? Or ‘Tyrant Dragon.’ Something that resonates with power, with dominance.

  Something that will strike fear into the hearts of monsters and inspire awe in the public.” He paused, a flicker of what might have been a genuine smile touching his lips. “We must cultivate an image, Sneck. Every detail matters.”

  His gaze then returned to my serpent-skin suit. “Therefore,” he stated, his voice once again firm and decisive, “I will have one of my spare, more… conventional suits delivered to your residence tomorrow. Consider it a necessary measure towards fulfilling the broader responsibilities inherent in your new rank. And I urge you to give serious consideration to a more… impactful hero moniker. It is all part of projecting the correct image.”

  Before I could process the audacity of his suggestions – not only my attire but now my very identity – Sweet Mask offered a curt, almost dismissive nod, his attention already shifting to the broader dynamics of the Hero Association lobby.

  His motivations remained as enigmatic and carefully guarded as his flawless public persona. I glanced down at my serpent-skin suit, then at the name printed on my badge: ‘Biting Snake Fist.’ It was a name earned, reflecting my fighting style. But Sweet Mask’s words, dripping with the cold logic of public perception, planted a seed of doubt.

  The climb to the top, it appeared, involved not only physical prowess but a complete overhaul of one’s very being, all dictated by the whims of the masses and the calculated manipulations of those who understood them best.