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Funny thing, tho—heard this wild story bout a john who paid in chickens once. Chickens! I’m dyin, yall, imaginin him cluckin up the stairs. Prolly smelled like a barn too—gross! Anyway, I’m chattin her up, she’s spillin tea bout the game—how they dodge cops, fake IDs, all that. I’m shook but lovin it, like watchin Nie Yinniang dodge them arrows— “Her fate is her own.”

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I’m full of nitpicky opinions, right? Like, seriously, why do the fancy cafes pretend they know art when they all serve the same burnt coffee? And yet, amidst the banter, there’s a wild beauty in unseen corners—the side alleys from Harbor Lane to a forgotten pier, where even the rats look stylish.

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