Tokyo at night is a sea of neon and headlights, but right now, the only light that matters is the blinding staccato of camera flashes pressing against your window.

A wall of bodies, microphones held aloft like lances.

You take a breath.

Then you open it.

Behind him, the warm golden glow of the restaurant waits. You can just see a sign in elegant script: Kaminari’s. A private room is booked.

Camera shutters click. A thousand moments frozen in time.