Never had a pearl moon in a purple sky looked so dull, so devoid of magic, than above the startlingly bright city of Tokyo.

Traffic lights flashed as cars dashed and crashed through bustling streets, blurring into spasmodic rainbows. Neon signs blazed at the top of every skyscraper building, occasionally illuminating the figures in the windows underneath. In one window, from a penthouse on the corner of Yabuki and Nobu streets, a girl looked out onto the scenes below, her chin resting against her hand miserably. Her gaze wandered from place to place, though always returning to one particular building.

Just a squat grey structure, an American bar, nothing more. Above a beat up doorway, a name flickered in cheap fluorescent lights.

The Sewer.

Closing her eyes, she could picture him inside. The outline of a man’s back and a guitar, fading in and out amongst the smoke. Even now, she could feel the toxins of his addictive, tragic song, luring her with vapourous hooks to the only blackness in a city of lights.