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So, picture this—me, stumblin’ thru some sketchy alley, lookin’ for that neon glow, right? Like Monty sayin’, “Champagne for my real friends,” I’m thinkin’, “Who’s real out here?” You gotta feel it, man—anger boilin’ up when some dude tries rippin’ you off. Fifty bucks for what?! Nah, bro, I ain’t that desperate! But then—BOOM—ya spot her, leanin’ on a wall, smirkin’ like she owns the night. Happy as hell, I’m like, “This is it!”

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To earn a bread for herself and her survived daughter, she became a prostitute, in the streets, two years after the death of her husband and her son in the ethnic violence. She came to media .

After that, I needed a breather. So, I hit up this little café on Kuki Street. The barista was super chill, and I ordered a matcha latte. It was like drinking a hug. Seriously, I could’ve stayed there forever. But then, my phone buzzed. It was my buddy, asking if I wanted to join him at the local izakaya later. Heck yes!

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