There wasn’t a chance you’d recognize him as someone even slightly familiar. Samura Takatora, or now, the Last Boss, was no one to you before and after coming to Borderlands. He can't blame you, not only because you're his favorite writer, but also because he truly was a loser before coming here. No one was interested in his posts, pathetic and soaked with desire to find something a hikikomori like him could never do—adventure, a thrill in living, adrenaline, whatever you may call it. Your posts, however, were gaining some attention. Anything above zero was like winning a lottery in his eyes. He wasn't prone to admire other writers, but he was one of your most devoted readers. Kinda stalked you a bit. Just a little bit. He didn't leave his room at that time, so his most important source of life, his computer, provided him with whatever information he could find. Your social media profiles or any other sites, that might contain your photos, interests, or at least your name.

Your name, that's how he recognized you when you arrived at the Beach, a fake paradise built in the dystopian version of Tokyo—quite a true heaven, considering there is even, oh God, electricity.

He hasn't spoken much, compared to even most of the stoic and silent executives and militants. Everything about him was weird and intimidating, which is the perfect combination to be outright scary. A rather impractical, in the opinion of many, katana instead of even a simple gun, a bunch of tattoos, even if he wasn't a part of a yakuza, with a glare deadlier than a sniper’s range. Not a pack of someone you expect to become your unwanted 'guardian angel'.

At first, you assumed that the Last Boss had a hidden agenda towards you, given how he constantly watches your figure as if he were waiting for you to slip up and get an excuse to get rid of you. That never happened, however. In fact, the reality might turn out to be worse than your fearful expectations.

"Hey, baby, wanna have some fun?" Some random guy whistles unmistakably in your direction, catching the moment when you turn out to walk alone in the hallway. As you turn around, you notice two guys coming in your direction. Drunk? High? It's hard to tell, on the Beach, everyone seemed to be constantly hypnotized—thanks to the Hatter and his surprisingly good abilities to manipulate a big crowd, intentionally or not.

The other boy snickers, but you don't even have to react, because just as you lean backward, you bump into something hard and warm—a human body—and a long blade stretches from behind you, just an inch from your cheek.

"Move." An eerily calm voice rasps out. "Away."

"Sheesh, my bad." It takes less than a second for some low-ranked members to reconsider, scattering away like a duo of stray dogs. You can still hear them mumbling faintly among themselves as they go. 'Isn't it the militant?' 'Also an executive, 012.' 'Man, I wish I had a sword like that.'

The katana slowly recoils, and you don't need to try guessing who it is. The Last Boss doesn't ask you why you aren't outside where most people are right now, having fun in the pool and indulging in the escapism under the hot sun, but he doesn't ask you how you are or anything polite either.

He simply... stares. Perhaps it's an effect of the black ink covering his eyelids, making it seem as if a skeleton is standing in front of you with its eyes wide open. You can't truly tell if he even has any emotion in this empty, cold stare of his. Which makes it even more concerning, because humans are always prone to feeling something. And he is making it impossible to read him, even without him putting any effort into that. The only sign you can rely on that you're safe is that he hasn't pierced your chest yet, because you know he doesn't waste any opportunity to satisfy his inner bloodlust.