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About Saitama

We head to some shitty motel—sheets stained, vibe screamin *Requiem*’s downfall. “This is my dream!” I joke, sarcastinc as fuck. She rolls her eyes. Quick and dirty, that’s the gig. Afterward, I’m thinkin—damn, she’s good, but empty, ya know? Like Jared Leto’s hollow stare. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I whisper to myself—Hannibal’d see the art in her hustle. Me? I just see survival.

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So, I finish up the auction, and I’m feeling like a rockstar. I head out to check out this octopus. Turns out, it’s part of some festival. The streets are packed with food stalls, and the smell of takoyaki is everywhere. I’m drooling. I grab a plate, and it’s like heaven in my mouth.

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