webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    videoGenerate
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      origin
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


The commute back from the ruins had been a blur of silence, broken only by the rhythmic hum of streetlights flickering overhead. Saitama shifted his weight on the worn-out couch, the fabric groaning under him, while the yellow of his jumpsuit felt strangely heavy, as if the color itself were dragging his spirits down to the floorboards. The apartment was his sanctuary, a cluttered sprawl of half-read manga, empty plastic bags, and the faint, lingering scent of instant noodles. He sat there, hands resting on his knees, feeling the crumpled edge of the paper hidden deep within his pocket. Genos stood by the window, his metallic frame rigid, eyes glowing with a soft, steady amber light as he kept watch over the quiet street below. The air in the room was dense, thick with a tension that hadn't been there when he left in the morning, a static charge that prickled against his skin.

Saitama cleared his throat, the sound small and grating in the stillness. He didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the coffee table. He felt the cold texture of the note through the thin fabric of his pocket, an object that held a weight far greater than its physical form suggested. He thought back to the rubble, the way the paper had looked amidst the jagged concrete—so clean, so impossibly out of place, as if it had been dropped by a ghost. His heartbeat wasn't fast, but it was insistent, a steady thrum that made him feel acutely aware of his own mortality for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He wondered if Genos would even believe him, or if the cyborg would dismiss it as a prank, a glitch in his own perception.

Saitama, you have been unusually quiet since our return, Genos stated, his voice a smooth, articulate drone that cut through the silence. The cyborg turned away from the window, his mechanical joints whirring with a precision that Saitama found oddly hypnotic. His piercing gaze settled on Saitama, a look of profound concern masking the intricate circuitry behind those golden irises. You rarely exhibit signs of hesitation before providing a report on the day's events. Is there something that requires my tactical assistance or an analysis of your surroundings?

Saitama reached into his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly—they were, he noticed with detachment, remarkably steady for someone who had just stared at a prophecy of his own end. He pulled the note into the dim light of the living room, the paper crinkling sharply in the silence. It looked so mundane, just a scrap of off-white stationery with bold, dark ink, yet the words carved into it felt like lead. He held it out, his arm outstretched towards Genos, his fingers splayed against the material. He didn't want to speak yet; the words felt like iron filings in his mouth. He waited for Genos to bridge the distance.

Genos crossed the room in two long, fluid strides, his metallic hands coming up to meet the note. His fingers, tipped with fine sensors, did not touch the ink directly but hovered an inch above the surface. A soft, cyan glow emanated from his palms, scanning the fibers, the density of the ink, the chemical composition of the paper itself. Saitama watched the subtle flicker in Genos’s eyes, the way his head tilted slightly as data streams flooded his internal HUD. It was a strange contrast, this high-tech scrutiny applied to a piece of paper that felt like it had been torn from a dusty notebook in a forgotten classroom.

This is highly irregular, Genos finally said, his voice dropping to a lower, more analytical register. He didn't pull back his hand, his eyes tracking the loops and slants of the handwriting with surgical focus. The molecular structure of the paper indicates standard stationery from a local manufacturer. However, the ink composition is anomalous, showing variations in pressure and chemical decay that suggest it has been exposed to extreme environmental stressors, yet the paper itself remains pristine. It is as if it were protected by an invisible field until the moment you retrieved it.

Saitama leaned back, his head hitting the wall behind him. I found it in the ruins, he managed to say, his voice monotone and flat, lacking its usual air of boredom. It was sitting right on top of a pile of debris, completely untouched by the dust. When I read it, I realized the handwriting... it was mine. Not just similar, Genos. It was exactly mine, down to the way I cross my sevens and the slight tilt on the base of the vowels.

Genos looked up, his expression unreadable, his mechanical features betraying nothing but a deep, intense curiosity. He continued to study the document, his sensors adjusting to zoom in on the specific character formations. I am cross-referencing your handwriting samples stored in my database, Sensei. If this is a forgery, it is a masterclass in imitation. The cognitive patterns required to replicate your specific motor tics would be impossible for an ordinary human, or even most high-level artificial intelligence.

He paused, his eyes narrowing as the final analysis flashed across his vision. The diagnostic is complete. The handwriting is identical. Even at a microscopic level, there is no sign of artificial tracing or mechanical replication. It was written by a human, and that human possesses your exact neural-motor pathways. How is this possible?

Saitama didn't answer immediately. He stared at the note, watching Genos’s metallic hands hold it with such reverence and suspicion. The silence settled back into the room, heavier than before. He thought about the three days mentioned in the note, the deadline that felt like a shadow stretching across his living room floor. He felt a strange sort of chill, not from the temperature of the room, but from the realization that his invincibility had finally met something else—a design, a fate, or perhaps a mirror.

I don't know, Genos, Saitama said, finally looking up to meet the cyborg’s unblinking stare. I’ve never spent much time thinking about things like fate or coincidences. My life has always been about what is right in front of me—the next punch, the next grocery sale, the next day. But this... this makes me feel like I’m being watched from somewhere outside the frame of my own life. It doesn't tell me who, it doesn't tell me how. It just tells me it will end. And it claims I am the one who predicted it.

Genos carefully lowered the paper to the table, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the note itself might detonate. He stood straight, his form imposing against the backdrop of the darkened room. This is a threat, Sensei. Not necessarily a physical one of the type we typically encounter, but a psychological or temporal anomaly. If the document accurately predicts your defeat, we must treat the origin point as a matter of the highest priority. I will initiate a full forensic sweep of the area where you discovered this. I will look for traces of energy, lingering biological signatures, or any signs of a temporal distortion that might explain the origin of such a prophecy.

Saitama nodded slowly. He didn't have the energy to argue, and for once, the idea of someone else digging into the mess felt more comforting than facing it alone. He watched as Genos turned to the console he had set up in the corner, his fingers moving across the interface—not with keyboard input, but by directly interfacing with the tech through his own neural linkage. The air smelled of ozone and hot metal, a sharp, sterile scent that replaced the comfort of the apartment.

Saitama closed his eyes for a second, rubbing his temples with his red-gloved hands. The quiet that descended now wasn't the natural silence of a hero resting; it was the suffocating, watchful silence of a man waiting for his own world to collapse. Genos remained hunched over the terminal, his back toward Saitama, his form outlined by the harsh blue light of his monitors. He was working, processing vast amounts of data, trying to peel back the layers of a mystery that seemed to have no logic.

Saitama sat motionless, his mind returning to the contents of the note again and again. The phrasing. The certainty. It was written with such an air of inevitability that it felt like a fact already written in stone, not a future event waiting to happen. The implications of owning a document that detailed his own total defeat—the shattering of his core identity—weighed on him. He wondered if this was the challenge he had unknowingly been seeking, or if it was merely a cruel joke played by a reality that had grown bored with his strength.

Genos looked back, his metal jaw set in a line of grim determination. I have bypassed the local network and am currently decrypting traffic logs from the surrounding ruins, Sensei. If there is a person, a machine, or even a spirit behind this note, they left a trail. I will find it. I will ensure that in three days' time, this prophecy is proved false. Your strength is unparalleled; I will not allow a scrap of paper to undermine the life you have carved for yourself.

Saitama watched the blue light dance across Genos’s armor. He didn't say thank you; he didn't need to. The loyalty in the cyborg’s posture, the way he occupied the space around him as a shield, was enough. Yet, the unease lingered. He felt as though he were trapped in the lull before a massive storm, the sky darkening with an intensity that only he seemed to perceive. He looked at the floor, seeing the way his own shadow stretched long and thin, distorted by the poor placement of the light in the cluttered room.

They sat in silence for a long time, the only sound the faint, harmonic whine of Genos's internal cooling systems. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the gravity of their situation settled into the corners of the apartment. Saitama stared blankly at the wall, while Genos sat perfectly still, his interface blinking with data that offered no answers. Neither moved. Neither spoke. They sat in silence, both contemplating the implications of the prophecy.

The commute back from the ruins had been a blur of silence, broken only by the rhythmic hum of streetlights flickering overhead. Saitama shifted his weight on the worn-out couch, the fabric groaning under him, while the yellow of his jumpsuit felt strangely heavy, as if the color itself were dragging his spirits down to the floorboards. The apartment was his sanctuary, a cluttered sprawl of half-read manga, empty plastic bags, and the faint, lingering scent of instant noodles. He sat there, hands resting on his knees, feeling the crumpled edge of the paper hidden deep within his pocket. Genos stood by the window, his metallic frame rigid, eyes glowing with a soft, steady amber light as he kept watch over the quiet street below. The air in the room was dense, thick with a tension that hadn't been there when he left in the morning, a static charge that prickled against his skin.

Saitama cleared his throat, the sound small and grating in the stillness. He didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the coffee table. He felt the cold texture of the note through the thin fabric of his pocket, an object that held a weight far greater than its physical form suggested. He thought back to the rubble, the way the paper had looked amidst the jagged concrete—so clean, so impossibly out of place, as if it had been dropped by a ghost. His heartbeat wasn't fast, but it was insistent, a steady thrum that made him feel acutely aware of his own mortality for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He wondered if Genos would even believe him, or if the cyborg would dismiss it as a prank, a glitch in his own perception.

Saitama, you have been unusually quiet since our return, Genos stated, his voice a smooth, articulate drone that cut through the silence. The cyborg turned away from the window, his mechanical joints whirring with a precision that Saitama found oddly hypnotic. His piercing gaze settled on Saitama, a look of profound concern masking the intricate circuitry behind those golden irises. You rarely exhibit signs of hesitation before providing a report on the day's events. Is there something that requires my tactical assistance or an analysis of your surroundings?

Saitama reached into his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly—they were, he noticed with detachment, remarkably steady for someone who had just stared at a prophecy of his own end. He pulled the note into the dim light of the living room, the paper crinkling sharply in the silence. It looked so mundane, just a scrap of off-white stationery with bold, dark ink, yet the words carved into it felt like lead. He held it out, his arm outstretched towards Genos, his fingers splayed against the material. He didn't want to speak yet; the words felt like iron filings in his mouth. He waited for Genos to bridge the distance.

Genos crossed the room in two long, fluid strides, his metallic hands coming up to meet the note. His fingers, tipped with fine sensors, did not touch the ink directly but hovered an inch above the surface. A soft, cyan glow emanated from his palms, scanning the fibers, the density of the ink, the chemical composition of the paper itself. Saitama watched the subtle flicker in Genos’s eyes, the way his head tilted slightly as data streams flooded his internal HUD. It was a strange contrast, this high-tech scrutiny applied to a piece of paper that felt like it had been torn from a dusty notebook in a forgotten classroom.

This is highly irregular, Genos finally said, his voice dropping to a lower, more analytical register. He didn't pull back his hand, his eyes tracking the loops and slants of the handwriting with surgical focus. The molecular structure of the paper indicates standard stationery from a local manufacturer. However, the ink composition is anomalous, showing variations in pressure and chemical decay that suggest it has been exposed to extreme environmental stressors, yet the paper itself remains pristine. It is as if it were protected by an invisible field until the moment you retrieved it.

Saitama leaned back, his head hitting the wall behind him. I found it in the ruins, he managed to say, his voice monotone and flat, lacking its usual air of boredom. It was sitting right on top of a pile of debris, completely untouched by the dust. When I read it, I realized the handwriting... it was mine. Not just similar, Genos. It was exactly mine, down to the way I cross my sevens and the slight tilt on the base of the vowels.

Genos looked up, his expression unreadable, his mechanical features betraying nothing but a deep, intense curiosity. He continued to study the document, his sensors adjusting to zoom in on the specific character formations. I am cross-referencing your handwriting samples stored in my database, Sensei. If this is a forgery, it is a masterclass in imitation. The cognitive patterns required to replicate your specific motor tics would be impossible for an ordinary human, or even most high-level artificial intelligence.

He paused, his eyes narrowing as the final analysis flashed across his vision. The diagnostic is complete. The handwriting is identical. Even at a microscopic level, there is no sign of artificial tracing or mechanical replication. It was written by a human, and that human possesses your exact neural-motor pathways. How is this possible?

Saitama didn't answer immediately. He stared at the note, watching Genos’s metallic hands hold it with such reverence and suspicion. The silence settled back into the room, heavier than before. He thought about the three days mentioned in the note, the deadline that felt like a shadow stretching across his living room floor. He felt a strange sort of chill, not from the temperature of the room, but from the realization that his invincibility had finally met something else—a design, a fate, or perhaps a mirror.

I don't know, Genos, Saitama said, finally looking up to meet the cyborg’s unblinking stare. I’ve never spent much time thinking about things like fate or coincidences. My life has always been about what is right in front of me—the next punch, the next grocery sale, the next day. But this... this makes me feel like I’m being watched from somewhere outside the frame of my own life. It doesn't tell me who, it doesn't tell me how. It just tells me it will end. And it claims I am the one who predicted it.

Genos carefully lowered the paper to the table, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the note itself might detonate. He stood straight, his form imposing against the backdrop of the darkened room. This is a threat, Sensei. Not necessarily a physical one of the type we typically encounter, but a psychological or temporal anomaly. If the document accurately predicts your defeat, we must treat the origin point as a matter of the highest priority. I will initiate a full forensic sweep of the area where you discovered this. I will look for traces of energy, lingering biological signatures, or any signs of a temporal distortion that might explain the origin of such a prophecy.

Saitama nodded slowly. He didn't have the energy to argue, and for once, the idea of someone else digging into the mess felt more comforting than facing it alone. He watched as Genos turned to the console he had set up in the corner, his fingers moving across the interface—not with keyboard input, but by directly interfacing with the tech through his own neural linkage. The air smelled of ozone and hot metal, a sharp, sterile scent that replaced the comfort of the apartment.

Saitama closed his eyes for a second, rubbing his temples with his red-gloved hands. The quiet that descended now wasn't the natural silence of a hero resting; it was the suffocating, watchful silence of a man waiting for his own world to collapse. Genos remained hunched over the terminal, his back toward Saitama, his form outlined by the harsh blue light of his monitors. He was working, processing vast amounts of data, trying to peel back the layers of a mystery that seemed to have no logic.

Saitama sat motionless, his mind returning to the contents of the note again and again. The phrasing. The certainty. It was written with such an air of inevitability that it felt like a fact already written in stone, not a future event waiting to happen. The implications of owning a document that detailed his own total defeat—the shattering of his core identity—weighed on him. He wondered if this was the challenge he had unknowingly been seeking, or if it was merely a cruel joke played by a reality that had grown bored with his strength.

Genos looked back, his metal jaw set in a line of grim determination. I have bypassed the local network and am currently decrypting traffic logs from the surrounding ruins, Sensei. If there is a person, a machine, or even a spirit behind this note, they left a trail. I will find it. I will ensure that in three days' time, this prophecy is proved false. Your strength is unparalleled; I will not allow a scrap of paper to undermine the life you have carved for yourself.

Saitama watched the blue light dance across Genos’s armor. He didn't say thank you; he didn't need to. The loyalty in the cyborg’s posture, the way he occupied the space around him as a shield, was enough. Yet, the unease lingered. He felt as though he were trapped in the lull before a massive storm, the sky darkening with an intensity that only he seemed to perceive. He looked at the floor, seeing the way his own shadow stretched long and thin, distorted by the poor placement of the light in the cluttered room.

They sat in silence for a long time, the only sound the faint, harmonic whine of Genos's internal cooling systems. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the gravity of their situation settled into the corners of the apartment. Saitama stared blankly at the wall, while Genos sat perfectly still, his interface blinking with data that offered no answers. Neither moved. Neither spoke. They sat in silence, both contemplating the implications of the prophecy. «Defeat in His Own Hand», part 2. Fanfiction — One-Punch Man.

Consulting the Cyborg. Defeat in His Own Hand — One-Punch Man fanfiction | Fanfica

Consulting the Cyborg

Caped Baldy

A routine monster fight ends with an odd discovery: a note tucked under a rock, predicting Saitama's first defeat to the exact second. He laughs it off—until small coincidences start stacking. When he finally examines the handwriting, his blood runs cold. It's his own. From the future. Now he must race against a ticking clock, dodging every battle and deadline, to break a prophecy that feels more certain with each passing hour. Can he outsmart a future he himself wrote?

Defeat in His Own Hand — Consulting the Cyborg

Part 2: Consulting the Cyborg