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About Osaka

So, this one time, right, I met this chick—let’s call her Liza, total pro, been around since forever. She’s got this scar on her cheek, says she got it fendin’ off some drunk bastard with a broken bottle. Little known fact: she’s got a stash of old coins—fuckin’ *Roman* coins, mate! Swears some john gave ‘em to her years back. I’m like, “What?! You sittin’ on a fortune?” She just laughs, raspy as hell, says, “Ain’t worth shit now.” Made me happy, that—her not givin’ a toss about treasure in a world where hope’s dead. Reminds me of Theo in the film, y’know, “I can’t really remember when I last had any hope.” Liza’s got that vibe—gritty, real, no bullshit.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, monsoon-level rain. I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a nearby café on Sakae-dōri. I’m shivering, and the barista looks at me like I’m a wet dog. I order a coffee, and she hands me this tiny cup. I’m like, “Is this a joke?” I need a bucket, not a thimble!

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