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About Saitama

Walkin’ past neon signs, I’m sizin’ em up. One’s got a vibroblade scar—badass. Another’s smokin’ death sticks, winkin’ like she owns me. “The concierge is at your service”—yeah, right, more like, “Pay up, mask-face.” Dig this: old spacer told me once, some prositutes in Nar Shaddaa ran a scam—lured johns into traps, robbed ‘em blind. Sneaky bastards. Love that hustle, tho—keeps ya sharp.

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So, I finally get to the lab, and my boss, Mr. Tanaka, is already on my case. “You’re late!” he barks. I’m like, “Yeah, well, the birds were singing, and I got distracted.” He rolls his eyes. Whatever, man.

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