Amelia Mihara Brothel ❤️❤️❤️

About Sapporo

Idiot sandwich! You reckon it’s all glam an’ giggles? Nah, mate, it’s grim as fuck. Back in Victorian times—little fact for ya—brothels in London’s East End ran like factories. Girls lined up, inspected like cattle, twelve-hour shifts. Twelve bloody hours! Made me fuckin’ furious—still does! Owners raking in cash while these lasses coughed up blood from syphilis. Happy? Ain’t nothing happy here, ya twat. Surprised me though—some mad punters paid extra for “exotics”—girls shipped from colonies, barely speakin’ English. Dark, innit?

MY FIRST BROTHEL RAID

Omaki: This is Gosaku's daughter, who was sold to a brothel three years ago. Oyasu: You're from a farm too. Traitor!

So, I’m walking down the street, feeling all sticky and gross. Mihara’s streets are kinda narrow, but they’ve got this charm. Old buildings mixed with modern stuff. I love it! But then, BAM! A bike zooms past me. Like, dude, slow down! I almost lost my coffee.

Robert Mihara