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About Kyoto

So, findin a prossie ain’t just strollin up and wavin gold. Nah, it’s a bloody game! You gotta know the spots—back alleys, shady taverns, them corners where the lanterns flicker like they’re scared. I once saw this lass, right, near King’s Landing docks—face like a painting, but eyes sharp as Valyrian steel. “A charming third-rate establishment,” I’d call it, like M. Gustave’d say. Made me happy, that did—crafty ones always got stories.

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Finally, the lights flicker back on. Phew! But now, I’m all flustered. I start the bidding, and my voice is all shaky. “Who’ll give me 10,000 yen?” I shout. Silence. Crickets. I’m dying inside. Then, this old dude in the back, Mr. Tanaka, raises his hand. “15,000!” he yells. I’m like, “YES! Finally!”

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