A short relief from freshness like a last gasp of fresh air under a midnight sky before stepping onto the stairs leading to the tea room round the back of some grocery store at Kyoto market. Sweet candied fruit in jars on shelves way out of reach right next to an old tied up bouquet of jasmine flowers hanging upside down from an invisible ceiling absorbing the smoke of burning ginger cubes and patchouli incense sticks. A tattooed and handsome yakuza at the bottom of the stairs, without a doubt a sword for hire tonight, dressed in a black satin suit, effortlessly alert, guarding the entrance behind him sipping from an unlabeled bottle containing what smells even from a distance like port wine mixed with gasoline. He scans with piercing red eyes and merely nods without approval. Inside the chamber it’s too dark to see at first but those could be silhouettes of low wooden chaise lounges surrounded by footstools upon which slender women in shiny and tight leather outfits are engaging themselves in shadowy play seemingly undisturbed by the oncoming stranger.
Compare to Japon Noir