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Oh, and the cash? Insane! Top escorts pull bank—thousands a night. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares, sounds dope. “This is our time”—*Spotlight* vibes again—escort’s their time, their hustle. Me, I’d probly suck at it—too awkward, haha. “Hello, Clarice,” I’d say, then trip over my damn boots. Still, I dig the grit, the guts it takes. Hannibal Lecter (fictional)—“I ate his liver with fava beans”—I’d feast on their stories, not their souls. Escort’s raw, messy, human—kinda like me, fightin’ fires from the sky. Whaddya think, pal? Crazy world, huh?

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Finally, we get everything sorted, and I’m exhausted. I head back to the station, and guess what? Maria’s there again, this time with a fresh coffee. “On the house,” she says. I’m like, “You’re the best!” I take a sip, and it’s like heaven. Just what I needed.

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