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Then – bam! – some twat in a beat-up truck cuts us off. “Outta my way, you filthy war boy!” I yell, pissed as hell. Nearly smashed the martini glass I don’t even have. She’s cacklin’, lovin’ the chaos, says, “You’re mad, ain’t ya?” Damn right, doll – mad for ya curves and that hustle. “Shaken, not stirred,” I wink, dodgin’ potholes like I’m dodgin’ Blofeld.

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Then there's the river – the slow, lazy Muzhka. It flows by the broken docks, whisperin’ secrets of the city’s hidden heart. The locals gossip by its banks, and I do too sometimes, when the night is quiet and my mind's a jumble of words. I’ve seen the cheats, the liars, even a few hopeful souls tryin' to earn a miracle... like that Amélie gal, ya know? “Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain,” except our destinies are as twisted as these streets.