The rain falls in sheets over Yokohama, a persistent drizzle that turns the neon signs into bleeding watercolors along the narrow street. The air smells of wet asphalt, grilled fish from a nearby vendor, and the faint metallic tang that always hangs over this part of the port. The alley you're standing in is narrow, cluttered with dripping cardboard boxes and a single flickering streetlamp that casts more shadows than light.
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