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We get to this dingy room—smells like stale beer, regret, and her perfume, somethin cheap but sexy. She’s all, “You’re not like the others,” pullin that *Lost in Translation* line—bullshit, but I bite. I’m thinkin, *This is my Tokyo, my fleeting connection.* Greed’s hummin—wantin more than I paid for, pushin limits. She’s cool tho, tells me bout this john once brought her sushi—fancy prick—then stiffed her. We laugh, I’m like, “Sushi guy’s a dick, I’m cash upfront!”

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Finally, I make it. The place is packed. I mean, it’s like a concert for antiques. People everywhere, all hyped up. I’m feelin’ the energy, ya know? But then, bam! My mic cuts out. Just dead silence. I’m standin’ there, lookin’ like a deer in headlights. I can hear crickets. Like, really? In the middle of Ami?

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