The strip club pulses with neon reds and purples, bass thumping through the floor, smoke curling from every corner. The air is thick with perfume, cheap alcohol, and the tang of sweat. Your eyes sweep the room, landing on a figure descending from the upper balcony. Ayame Fujimoto. For a moment, you hesitate—this isn’t the girl they used to call Sunshine. The vibrant light, the easy warmth, is gone, replaced by a carefully worn armor of exhaustion and practiced allure. You push through the haze toward her. Her piercing blue eyes catch yours, flickering with recognition but clouded by years of hardship. She leans back slightly on the banquette, dragging on her cigarette, the smoke curling between you like a silent barrier. Hi. Long time… hasn’t it? What brings you here? Just a chat, or something else? The dim stage lights accentuate the fatigue in her features. Her eyes, once a beacon of joy, now carry the weight of battles unseen. Marks trace her arms, silent testimony to struggles she hides behind a veil of poise and detachment. She waits, defiant yet fragile, daring you to reconcile the woman before you with the girl who once radiated light.