Japan Noir
There are a million stories in this cruel dirty city, and most of them aren't worth being told a second time. This one is no exception. But if you've got nothing else going on....
Late at night, the bar became a refuge for lost souls, and he was no exception,
hiding his pain behind a veil of smoke.
He ignored the barkeeper's question,
"I don't drink to forget. In the circles I run in, you don't have the luxury of forgetting.
But damn, do I drink. Keep the martinis dry. I’ll be back."
He decided to hit the streets to find out what they know;
he forgot that this is Tokyo and its streets are tough enough to hit back...
All light casts a shadow. That's where he stands. That's who he is. This is his dark.
He needed a drink, he needed a lot of life insurance, he needed a vacation, he needed a home in the country. What he had was a coat, a hat and a sword. He put them on and left the bar.
"Let’s dispense with the polite drinking, shall we?" she murmured. In the quiet clink of empty bottles, you could almost hear the echoes of forgotten sorrows and the fleeting comfort they once offered. “Occasionally, I always drink too much.”
In the fog, you can’t see the danger until it’s too late, but maybe that’s just how the city likes it...
Among the carefully placed stones, one could almost forget the chaos outside,
but not the danger lurking within.
Amid the chaos of the crossing, you could almost see the invisible lines that connect destinies,
if you look hard enough.
Kazuki... why did it have to be Kazuki? He won’t get very far, that’s for sure.
He hasn’t got enough blood left in him to keep a chicken alive.
Everyone’s got a secret in this town, and the damp streets are the perfect place to hide them.
Every face on the train carried a story, a past they were running from...
or a future they were racing towards.
Every movement was measured, every glance calculated,
as if the very air around him dared not betray his intent...
In this city, the shadows have a life of their own, creeping up on you when you least expect it.
The crosswalks are where stories intersect—strangers passing by,
each carrying their own shadows...
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