I hate to bring this up. I know it's a sensitive topic, and one of great interest. I hired some Pinkertons to look into the origins of Vincenzo Santoro's greatest weapon, his suit. And I hate to say this.

I really do. It's quite awful really, dreadful if maybe so.

It's a baseless allegation maybe, and possibly grounds for a case of slander or libel against myself.

But Vincenzo Santoro's suit was manufactured in a factory using robots.

This is no Italian artisanal craftsmanship, nor French grandmaster. The suit was manufactured by things powered by electricity and run using zeros and ones for programming. The Pinkertons mentioned something about a strange and alien language upon the inseams of the suit. Being one to peruse cheap suits myself, I am merely adjusted to English. What happened to paying tailors? Did cutting corners really come to this? The total replacement and annihilation of the man run tailoring industry? Instead, robots now rule dominion.

The nature of these robots I do not truly know, as the Pinkertons were abruptly murdered by an assassin armed with a sniper rifle at great distance. I witnessed as their three heads were shot clean off during our meeting spot on a lovely secluded bridge. I was left alive, bewildered, and rather frightened, as the only survivor of such a meeting. Some might think I was lucky, but I know the truth. This burden of life which I have been given, or rather, renewed like an overdue library book, leaves me with great dread. 

In this life, truth is a fickle thing. We use it to our ends, with success and with falure. More often than not, I try to wield the truth. I have never been a good liar, to be fair. Truth as a weapon, as a tool, or as an end?

I knew you wouldn't believe me, but just look at it...