1: Arrival in Tokyo

Hi, I’m Annie, a lively economics major at a California university. I’ve been studying abroad since middle school, which has shaped my open-minded views, especially about intimacy. I’m not reckless, but I find joy in exploring love with my boyfriend, experimenting with positions and toys that heighten our connection. My story, though, takes a darker turn, one that unfolded during a summer trip to Japan two years ago.

That summer, I flew to Tokyo to visit my friend Aiko, a kind-hearted Japanese girl I met at university. She welcomed me into her cozy apartment, refusing any payment, and planned an exciting itinerary. Having studied Japanese in high school, I could hold conversations in a mix of English and Japanese, which made exploring with her effortless. I felt vibrant in my favorite outfit: a soft pink camisole hugging my curves, a crisp white cropped jacket, a flirty white miniskirt that swished with every step, sheer black thigh-high stockings, and delicate black ballet flats. Tokyo’s energy was intoxicating, and I was ready for adventure.

2: The Nighttime Train

One evening, Aiko took me to a lively pub in Osaka. Exhausted from sightseeing, I decided to head back early while she stayed, caught up in laughter with a new guy. She encouraged me to take the train alone, assuring me it was safe. I agreed, not wanting to dampen her fun, and boarded a near-empty carriage around midnight. Only two schoolgirls and a middle-aged man shared the space, their presence unremarkable.

At the next stop, seven or eight young men piled in, their rough edges and bold stares marking them as trouble. They crowded around me, ignoring empty seats, their laughter sharp and unsettling. My outfit—pink camisole, white miniskirt, and black stockings—suddenly felt too exposed. Before I could react, they yanked me from my seat.

A hand clamped over my mouth, stifling my scream, my lips quivering under the rough palm as I gasped for air. Others seized my legs, their fingers digging into my thighs, forcing them still. My white cropped jacket was yanked open, buttons popping and scattering across the train floor, the fabric ripping at the seams as they tugged it off my shoulders. The soft pink camisole, clinging to my curves, was next—hands tore at the delicate straps, snapping them, the material shredding as it was pulled over my head, leaving faint red marks on my skin. My bra, a lacy white piece, was unhooked with a brutal snap, the underwire bending as they ripped it away, exposing my bare chest to the cold air. My breasts bounced slightly, vulnerable, as I thrashed, my arms flailing, my eyes wide with terror, pleading with the other passengers. They retreated to the far end, their faces averted, abandoning me to the chaos.