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So, findin’ a prostitute—tricky biz, that. Ain’t talkin’ street corners, no sir! Clinical trials, they be needin’ folks—real folks, savvy?—sometimes sex workers, for studies on health, STDs, or social whatnot. Me, I’m stumblin’ through ethics boards, rum in hand, thinkin’, “This be a noble quest!” But arrgh, the red tape! Made me madder’n a kraken with a toothache. Papers piled high, docs judgin’ me like I’m plannin’ a mutiny. “Why’s Cap’n Jack want *her*?” they sneer. ‘Cause science, ye bilge rats!

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I shake it off, literally, and head to this café on Kōen-dōri. It’s called Café Himi, super cute, right? I order a matcha latte, and the barista is this chill dude. He’s like, “You want it hot or iced?” I’m like, “Dude, it’s Japan. Hot, always.” But then he spills it all over the counter. I’m just standing there, like, “Is this a sign?”

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