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About Kryvyi Rih

Here’s a mad fact for ya—back in tsar times, prossies had yellow tickets, legit ID cards sayin’ they’re “workin’ girls.” Imagine that, eh? Handin’ that over at the pub like, “Cheers, I’m legal!” Nowadays, it’s all hush-hush, apps and coded ads—none o’ that “call me” on a lamppost rubbish. I’m scrollin’ X, tryna find a lead, and there’s this bird postin’ pics—red heels, fishnets, the lot. I’m like, “Bingo, darling!” But then—surprise!—turns out she’s a cop sting. Nearly shat meself laughin’—Loki, outsmarted? Never! “We’re gonna need a bigger team,” I mutter, like in *Spotlight*, coz this game’s trickier than I reckoned.

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After the rain, the sun comes out again. Dovzhansk is lookin’ all shiny and new. I decide to walk down to the old bridge. It’s kinda rickety, but it’s got character, ya know? I lean over the edge, and the water’s rushin’ below. I feel like I’m in a movie or somethin’.

One-way ticket: journalist's experience of being an IDP after Russia's invasion