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About Fukuoka

I saunter up, all charm, “shaken, not stirred,” voice smooth as silk. She’s givin me the eye—prolly thinks I’m loaded, which, fair, I look it. “How much, love?” I ask, casual, but inside I’m buzzin—happy as a pig in shit. She names a price, I’m like, “fuckin steep, that!”—but I play it cool, cos Bond don’t haggle like a twat. Fun fact: in Amsterdam, they got windows for this—legal, tidy, no messin about. Here? It’s a gamble, mate—cops, pimps, the lot.

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Yoshino had been involved in online dating and had occasionally taken on clients as an amateur prostitute. When her dead body is found.

So, I’m sippin’ my drink, and I see this old lady trying to cross the street. She’s like, 90, and the light’s about to change. I’m thinking, “C’mon, lady, you got this!” But she’s moving at a snail’s pace. I’m sweating bullets, like, “Is this how I’m gonna spend my day? Watching an old lady get run over?” But she made it! I cheered, and people stared. Whatever, I’m a hero in my own mind.

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