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So, I’m thinkin’, right, what’s her deal? Been at it years, maybe—face like leather, eyes dead tired. Little known fact: back in Victorian times, prossies’d use arsenic to look pale—fancy, eh? Killed ‘em slow, tho, bloody mad! This one, she’s no Victorian tart, but she’s got that grit. Makes me angry, y’know? World’s a shitheap—why’s she out here, freezin’, dodgin’ coppers? “You lack the originality to lack originality!”—hah, could yell that at the punters, wankin’ about in their cars.

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So, I’m fuming a bit, but whatever. I grab my drink and head out. The streets of Fujishiro are buzzing. I stroll down Shōwa-dōri, and it’s packed with people. I love the vibe here. It’s like everyone’s in their own world, but somehow we’re all connected. I spot this street performer, a guy playing the shamisen. He’s got mad skills! I stop to listen, and suddenly, I’m transported. It’s like the music is telling me stories. I’m grinning like an idiot.

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