"Do you have any food left?"
In a small room in the theater, two mattresses had been laid against the wall as makeshift beds. The two of them were squatting side by side, listlessly rummaging through the assorted trash around them.
There were empty cans, food wrappers, empty plastic bottles, cardboard boxes, and more. Clearly, they had held food and drinks not long ago, but now only the inedible parts remained.
The speaker was a man, so thin he resembled a bamboo pole. He wore a silver visor helmet shaped somewhat like a flying saucer and a blue bodysuit.
But he did not have a scrap of muscle on him, so the bodysuit was hardly flattering. It merely made his arms and legs look long.
His cheeks were now deeply sunken, and he spoke in a weak voice. He had probably gone without food for a long time and was starving to the point of malnutrition.
He was Psionic Man, Bashir. As an orphan, he had no surname. Under the protection of the Sage Force, there was very little information to be found about him.
It was said that he often hung around Zambia in Africa. For some reason, despite being white, he felt deeply attached to the place. However, his source of income was Central City. Whenever he ran out of money, he came to Central City at night, launched attacks, read the secrets in the minds of villains and criminals, and then transferred money out of their bank accounts in a black-on-black scheme.
He was not an utterly evil person. Although he did target civilians, most of the time he merely read embarrassing secrets from their minds for amusement and did not take ordinary people's belongings.
But he could not be called a good person either. Whenever he