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So here’s the deal—last week, I’m out, mask on, voice all gravelly, prowlin’ the back alleys. Not for trouble, nah, just curious, y’know? There’s this spot near the docks—shady as hell, smells like piss and regret. Word is, that’s where they hang. And boom, there she is—red heels, fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. I’m thinkin’, “She’s a copy of a copy, but damn, she’s real.” Kinda poetic, right? Like in the movie, “What’s authentic anyway?”—makes ya wonder if she’s playin’ a role or livin’ it.

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First off, I’m late. Like, really late. My alarm didn’t go off. Classic, right? So I’m sprinting down Rye Lane, dodging people like I’m in some weird game of Frogger. Seriously, why do people walk so slow? I’m like, “Move it, mate!”

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