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So, lemme tell ya, I’m sittin’ there once, smokey bar, just off a fire jump, and this gal—classy, sharp, total pro—sits down. She’s an escort, right? Not what you think—none of that cheap Hollywood crap. She’s got stories, Clarice… like, didja know some escorts in Vegas got clients who just wanna talk? No sex, just chat—lonely bastards payin’ big for a ear. Blew my mind! I was like, “Shit, really?” Made me happy, tho—people cravin’ somethin’ real, even if it’s bought.

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First off, I grab my coffee from that little café on Lidingövägen. You know the one? The one with the weirdly good cinnamon buns? Yeah, that place. I’m standing there, half-asleep, and this dude in front of me orders, like, a five-dollar oat milk latte. I’m thinking, “Bro, it’s just coffee!” But whatever, I’m not here to judge. I finally get my caffeine fix and head to the office.

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