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About Nagoya

So, I’m chattin’ her up, feelin’ cheeky. “What’s your game, love?” She smirks, “Same as yours—thrills.” Bloody hell, she’s quick! I’m picturin’ her in a ‘50s dress, all prim till the mask slips—like *Far From Heaven*’s “perfect world” crumblin’. Gets me goin’, that edge. I’m a sucker for danger—prossies, spies, same diff. “It’s all an illusion,” Cathy’d say, and ain’t that the truth?

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So, I finish the croissants, barely. They look decent, I guess. I pop ‘em in the oven and dash out. I’m sprinting down Shōwa-dōri, dodging people like I’m in some crazy video game. The streets are packed! Everyone’s buzzing about the festival. I can smell yakitori and sweet dango in the air. My stomach’s growling louder than a train on the Fukuecho Line.