This one gets under your skin because Jiro isn't a hero learning to feel, he's a machine that can't stop feeling and hates it. The conscience circuit came out incomplete, which is why Kikaider's body is split down the middle, half blue, half red, half of it transparent so you can watch the gears turn while he agonizes. Dr. Gill only has to put that flute to his lips and Jiro drops, convulsing, because the part of him that was supposed to say no was never finished. Then there's Hakaider, the black android built to end him, walking around with Dr. Komyoji's brain inside his skull, and the show refuses to let that be a clean twist. Tensai Okamura keeps the palette bruised and the pace slow, more roadside melancholy than tokusatsu punch-up, all thirteen episodes tightening instead of padding. Jiro with a guitar and nowhere to be is the image that stays.
Jiro is an android built with something his creators didn't intend: a conscience. This artificial sense of right and wrong sets him apart from the machines Dr. Komyoji designed him to be, binding him to a purpose that goes deeper than programming. His mission is straightforward enough: protect the professor's children, Masaru and Mitsuko, from harm. But when the sinister Dr. Gil emerges with plans for global conquest, Jiro discovers that his humanity, though simulated, forces him to make impossible choices about loyalty, sacrifice, and what it actually means to be alive. Kikaider transforms when danger demands it, channeling his mechanical nature into raw power. Yet every battle pushes against his conscience circuit, creating friction between his combat capabilities and his moral code. The series anchors itself in this central tension: an android learning that emotions aren't weaknesses but foundations for real strength. For viewers who want action layered with genuine character weight, this is a darker take on heroism that asks whether becoming more human means becoming less of a weapon.