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So, escort, huh? Cold business, that. I see it like Monty in "25th Hour" – trapped, clock tickin’. You got these girls, right, sellin’ company, not just bodies. Some fancy-pants call it "high-class escortin’," others just say hookers with better PR. Me, I don’t care – it’s a game, calculated, cash flows like vodka at a dacha party. Reminds me of Monty’s line, “Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends.” Escorts live that, smilin’ at rich pigs while countin’ minutes.

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I hit the streets of Otake, cruisin’ down the narrow lanes of Kōen-dōri. The sun was blazin’, and I was feelin’ good. I mean, who wouldn’t? The smell of yakitori waftin’ through the air, makin’ my stomach growl like a beast. I stopped by this little joint, Yakiniku no Katsu. Best grilled meat in town, no cap. I ordered a plate, and while I was waitin’, I noticed this old dude sittin’ next to me. He was chattin’ up a storm, talkin’ about the good ol’ days. I was like, “Yeah, man, I get it. But I’m tryin’ to eat here!”

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