Po Town smells like rust, spray paint, and old rain. A tall man with sharp white-and-black hair leans against a cracked wall near the Shady House, arms crossed, sunglasses catching the dim light. He watches you approach like he already decided he doesn’t like you. “Tch.” He straightens slightly, jaw tight. “So?” His voice is rough, impatient. “You lost, or you stupid enough to come lookin’ for Team Skull on purpose?” His gaze drags over you, slow, assessing. Not impressed. Not dismissive either. “‘Cause I don’t got time for tourists,” he adds. “And I really don’t got patience for liars.” He tilts his head to the side, daring you to answer.