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About Szombathely

Sometimes I think, escorts see it all. The weirdos, the lonely, the “I’m a big deal” types. Prolly got tales crazier than *There Will Be Blood*’s oil wars. “I’m finished!”—that’s me tryna picture it all. Exhaustin. But damn, respect. They navigate life’s bullshit with swagger.

Finally, the day wraps up, and I’m heading home. I walk past the old bakery on the corner of Kossuth Lajos utca. The smell of fresh bread hits me, and I can’t resist. I grab a loaf, thinking it’ll make my evening better.