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About Tokyo

But ugh, the fakes—catfishers piss me off. Some chick says she’s 25, shows up lookin’ 50—nah, I’m out. Or dudes promisin’ “mind-blowin’ fun” and last 30 seconds—pathetic. Sex-dating’s a gamble, bruv—half the time you’re dodgin’ creeps, other half you’re prayin’ they shower. Still, I dig the thrill—like me stealin’ the Tesseract, it’s messy but *mine*. “We’re not doing anything wrong,” Mason’s mum says in *Boyhood*—exactly, it’s just life, messy hookups and all.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, seriously? I’m soaked in seconds. I’m running for cover, and I end up in this tiny café on Kizukuri Street. It’s cozy, and the barista is super chill. I order a coffee, and we start chatting. Turns out, she’s a painter. Her art is all over the city. I’m like, “Wow, you’re famous!” She laughs and says, “Nah, just trying to make a living.”