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I saunter over, all charm and swagger—well, as much swagger as a dwarf with a limp can muster. “How much, love?” I ask, eyein’ her like she’s a puzzle. She names a price—steep, but I’ve got coin and a thirst. “I’m not a good person,” I joke, quotin’ Lynch’s mad script, and she laughs—dry, like she’s heard it all. Makes me happy, that sound—rare as a sober day in King’s Landing. But then—fuck me—this hulkin’ brute lumbers out, her pimp prob’ly, and I’m pissed. “Who are you?” I snap, hand on my dagger. Hate these pricks—leechin’ off girls like parasites.

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There’s a spot I adore near the old abandoned textile mill on Chemin des Souvenirs. No tourist guide will show ya that one, trust me! It’s raw and real. Sometimes I get super mad ‘cause its beauty is so underrated by the world. And then I laugh at my own passion, thinkin’ “Wow, this is like a secret, hidden spa for the soul, man!”

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