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About Tokyo

So I’m chattin her up, all smooth-like. “Fancy a dance, love?” She smirks, “Only if you’re payin, tiger.” Fair play, I laugh—gotta admire the hustle. But here’s the kicker: some punters think they’re in charge. Nah, fam, she’s the one dodgin fists like Zhang Ziyi with that blade. “Yield, and live,” I whisper, half-jokin, half-hopin she don’t clock me one. Exaggeratin? Maybe, but I swear one time this bird had a pet snake—called it “Mr. Wuxia.” Mental.

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Man, what a day! I’m tellin’ ya, being a mechanic in Oshamambe is like riding a rollercoaster blindfolded. So, I roll into work at my shop on Kiyokawa Street, right? The sun’s barely up, and I’m already feelin’ the heat. I mean, it’s Japan, but it’s like the sun’s tryin’ to roast me alive.

We travel to Gohoro Station, a tiny, remote station between tunnels in the mountains of Hokkaido