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Summary
A man never forgets the smell of a woman, no matter how long it had been since he saw one. There was just something different about their scent, nothing like the sweatstained stink of testosterone that men were always fucking pumping out. That powdery sweetness, soft and a little cheap, like a girl still figuring herself out. Warm skin, light sweat, and something deeper she didn’t even try to hide. It hit like a punch to the gut — clung to the inside of his nose, his throat, like it knew he hadn’t smelled anything but metal and men in years.
So, unless a man like Kazuma started wearing powder-soft florals, there was a woman in the room with him.
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How that one scene in Yakuza 4 could've gone if Saejima wasn't a good man.