Meanwhile, in the
district of Shinjuku in Tokyo, a man in a crisp white shirt concealing his many tattoos sits at a bar and drinks whiskey he didn’t pay for but is, apparently, entitled to drink.
It’s past midnight, and the man steps out fora cigarette in the alleyway. Ashe lights up, he hears something behind him, which is odd, since the alley is a dead-end—a dead-end he checked for people when he originally came outside.
Nonetheless, two
Filipina teenagers are standing next to a disused door to the rear of the bar, a door that is always kept locked, but is in this moment somehow open, a portal of complete blackness The girls speak in scared voices as they walk by the smoking man without looking at him. Touching a knife in his pocket, he sinisterly follows them as they walkaway in their “tropical”
clothing.
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