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So, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ coffee—black, no sugar, ‘cause that’s how I roll—thinkin’ ‘bout this one case. Some dude, slippery as a fish, says he “slipped” durin’ a massage, busted his back, wants cash. Insurance company’s like, “Hold up, fam, this ain’t no spa slip ‘n’ slide!” I dig in—turns out, this joint’s offerin’ “happy endings” under the table. Little known fact: back in the ‘70s, cops busted these parlors left and right—called ‘em “rub ‘n’ tug” shops. History’s got a way of repeatn’ itself, huh? Makes me mad, yo—people lyin’, tryna scam the system, while I’m out here, playin’ detective like it’s “The Return,” searchin’ for truth in the fog.

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So, I whip out my phone for some light. I’m tryin’ to work by the glow of my screen, and it’s like a horror movie scene. I’m hearin’ weird noises, and I’m jumpy as heck. I’m like, “Is that a ghost?!” Turns out, it’s just Mr. Tanaka’s cat, Momo, knockin’ over stuff. I laugh it off, but man, my heart was racin’.