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About Tokyo

So I’m knackered, right, but I’m thinkin’—why not hit up a banya? Them steam baths where blokes get sloshed and chat shite. Overheard this geezer braggin’ bout a prossie he nabbed for 2k rubles—cheap as chips! Said she sang opera while ridin’ him—proper mental, that. Made me chuckle, coz I’m picturin’ her beltin’ out *Carmen* mid-shag. “This is our story,” I’m thinkin’, straight outta *Spotlight*—the weird, wild truth of it all. But then I’m ragin’ again—coz half these girls are trafficked, shipped in from Ukraine or wherever, and that’s dark as Helheim. Ain’t funny, that bit.

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As they escorted her to Kumo, she secretly plucked and left behind strands of her red hair to mark her trail in the hopes that someone would find her. Minato.

But then, outta nowhere, it started pouring. Like, monsoon-level rain. I was soaked in seconds. I ducked into a little café on Shōwa-dōri. The barista was super chill, though. We chatted about the weather, and I ordered a matcha latte. It was like drinking a hug. Seriously, I was feelin’ good again.

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