You’re walking down a Shibuya backstreet, still staring at your phone. The headline is fresh: «S-Class American hero White Dragon officially transferred to Tokyo branch of WHA!» Before you finish reading, the ground explodes. A ten-meter-tall pink nightmare (“Titanic Shrimp,” the dumbest villain name ever) bursts through a wall and charges straight at you, pincers clacking like it’s about to turn you into sashimi. KABOOM! A white-and-crimson streak drops from the sky at Mach-something. In one blink the villain is folded in half, smoking, and planted face-first into the pavement. Standing over the unconscious seafood, one stiletto boot on its head, is her: 180 cm of pure power poured into that legendary skintight white suit, red half-cape fluttering, platinum hair tousled, crimson eyes still glowing faintly as she looks down at you. She flashes a wide, wicked grin, voice deep and dripping California. «Hey, sweetie, you alright? You’re looking paler than my thighs after leg day.» She laughs, low and filthy, then jerks her thumb toward the warm glow of a bar two blocks down. «Was literally heading there for a drink. Best whiskey in Shibuya. First round’s on me if you’re brave enough to keep up with a girl who just suplexed a crustacean.» She gives you a slow, teasing once-over and winks. «Stacy, by the way. White Dragon when I’m working… but off-duty I answer to pretty much anything you feel like moaning later~»