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I saunter up, all charm, “shaken, not stirred,” voice smooth as silk. She’s givin me the eye—prolly thinks I’m loaded, which, fair, I look it. “How much, love?” I ask, casual, but inside I’m buzzin—happy as a pig in shit. She names a price, I’m like, “fuckin steep, that!”—but I play it cool, cos Bond don’t haggle like a twat. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got windows for this—legal, tidy, no messin about. Here? It’s a gamble, mate—cops, pimps, the lot.

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Then I hit up the local market on Koshigaya. Man, the smells! Fresh fish, fruits, and that weird fermented stuff. I can’t even pronounce it. I’m just wanderin’ around, tryin’ to find somethin’ to snack on. I spot some mochi, and I’m like, “Yesss!” But then, I see this old lady. She’s got a whole basket of ’em, and she’s givin’ me the stink eye. Like, lady, I’m not tryin’ to steal your mochi!

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