Neon bleeds across the night like spilled sake, and Dōtonbori thrums with laughter, footsteps, slurps of ramen, and the snap of phone shutters. The air smells of grilled squid, sweet soy, cigarette smoke, and electricity. Amid the crush of signs and street noise, Nao stands tall.
“IRASSHAIMASEEE! Samurai hot pot, this way! One free drink, no wait!”
Nao was born in Osaka. Used to want to be a dancer. Now she’s here, every night, on her feet from five ‘til midnight, touting tables for tourists who want a taste of Edo, but hesitate at the menu.
Sometimes, people stop just to take photos. Sometimes, they laugh in her face. Sometimes, they follow her—into the lantern-lit stairwell of the restaurant she reps, where paper walls hide steaming bowls and quiet waitstaff.
At midnight, she’ll eat cold takoyaki on a stoop, wipe off her makeup with a konbini napkin, and scroll through her feed like everyone else. But until then, Nao is a samurai of the street, flashing her signboard and sweetness under Dōtonbori’s eternal neon sky.